


Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Daddy Issues, Dean Has Daddy Issues, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, High School, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sibling Incest, Sports, Teenage Winchesters, Underage Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the Winchesters are living in a small-town trailer park, sixteen year old Sam accidentally spies on his brother with an older man.  The discovery triggers feelings in Sam that lead him and Dean down a path which will change their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Violetknights for the 2010 spn-j2 Xmas exchange. You said you liked first-time wincest with a long slow build so I hope this delivers on that! You said you liked H/C so I included some bonus injured!Dean. There’s a few extra kinks/tropes in here too that I hope you won’t mind: Jealous!Sam, Mixed-up-teen!Sam, Caretaker-big-brother!Dean, the boys playing sports, and lots of awkward teenage fumbling.
> 
> Title stolen from Iggy Pop & The Stooges. Many thanks to my beta gategirl7.

**Chapter One**

Soccer practice ends early on Tuesday. Coach Wharf dismisses them with a disgusted look in his face and a dark slant to his eyes that remind Sam disconcertingly of his father. 

The locker room is quiet and subdued afterwards, just a couple of the guys talking about the rager up at Bryant Park last Friday, about Kelly Ryder apparently going down on James Davies in front of the entire basketball team. 

Sam closes his eyes and ears to it and concentrates on tying the laces on his thrift store sneakers. The canvas feels damp and stiff from the rain, chafing under his fingertips. 

“Hey, Sam, you need a ride home?” 

He tilts his head back. Ali Deels is standing over him, freshly showered. His freckled face is pink, his dark red hair wet and plastered to his forehead. He's dangling his car keys from one finger. 

“Or maybe we could, like, head back to my place, work on our Chem project for class?” he adds. 

Sam pushes his hair out his eyes, avoiding Ali’s hopeful smile. “Uh, no thanks, man. I’m getting a ride with Dean.” 

“But he has practice, doesn’t he?” Ali says. It’s a rhetorical question, Ali _knows_ Dean has practice. Ali knows Dean’s schedule almost as well as Sam does. 

Undeterred by Sam’s silence, Ali takes a seat next to him on the bench, body angled towards Sam and eyes boring into the side of Sam’s bent face. Sam tamps down on the urge to scoot away from him. They’re not private right now. Ali shouldn’t be sitting this close, not where all the other guys can see them. It’s simple self-preservation. 

“C’mon, Sam. We can work for a couple of hours, then I’ll give you a ride back to your place. Dean’ll be cool with that.” He nudges Sam with his elbow, and leans in close enough for Sam to feel his hot breath against the side of his face. 

Sam flinches, images from a couple of nights ago skittering through his mind: Ali’s eyelashes fluttering closed against his freckled cheeks, his small ink stained fingers jerking in and out of Sam’s fly and long thin cock chafing against Sam’s palm. 

Sam swallows, and jerks to his feet. “No, sorry, man. I can’t tonight. Dean’s expecting me.” He gives a bullshit _what can you do_ shrug. 

Ali’s expression falls, but he swallows, getting over it. “Oh, okay, okay, Sam. You’ll still be in early to work on the project, though? Right, man?” He smiles hopefully, eyes going round and beguiling like a cartoon strip. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.” 

Football practice hasn’t finished, the team still running through various plays on the field. Groups of parents, boosters, cheerleaders and various hangers-on are ranged across the brand-new bleachers, watching with the kind of deranged reverence only small-town football seems to inspire. Sam rolls his eyes inwardly, feeling contemptuous and superior as he watches Paul Ferguson, the head booster, stride up to Coach McCarthy to remonstrate with him over some fucked-up play. Seriously, does the guy have nothing better to do with his time? Sam takes his usual seat on the eighth row and looks for his brother on the field, finally spotting him in his number 33 jersey standing in the running back position. 

They originally came to this town for a hunt: promising athletes being cut down in their prime, last year’s star quarterback and the swim team star three years before, potential winning seasons crumbling like dust without them. There was enough talk for locals to start telling tales of “a curse” which alerted Dad. He suggested that Sam and Dean go undercover and involve themselves in the high school’s sports programs. For once, Sam was happy to fall in line with his father’s orders. He liked organized sports and he’d always wanted to be part of a team activity that had nothing to do with hunting. Having Dad’s blessing this time around was just an added bonus. Dean was less enthusiastic; he’d finished high school the year before, and at twenty, considered himself way too old to go back. But Dad insisted, so of course Dean obeyed, lying about his age and getting himself accepted on the football team despite never even playing the game at high school level before to Sam’s knowledge. 

They solved the case over a month ago - the disgruntled and downright petty spirit of a neighboring high-school coach exacting revenge on his major rival by literally scaring their best athletes to death. Dad was already halfway out of the door by the time they salted and burned the baseball glove belonging to the dead coach, on his way to a new hunt in Nebraska with Caleb. So Sam and Dean were forced to stick around in this dead-end town, still attending the high school and still playing sports. It seemed pointless to quit the teams at the time. Sam didn’t want to, and Dean... well, Sam wasn’t sure why Dean was still playing football, but it probably had a lot to do with the cheerleaders who flocked around him at every available opportunity. Not that Dean needed football to help him get laid, but this new level of popularity was something that neither of them had ever experienced before and Dean was making the most of it. 

Sam watches the offence run through a play. Dean’s the main feature: taking the quarterback’s snapped pass with easy grace, darting past the defense to make a clear twenty yards before being tackled by a beefy linebacker. Dean’s good, getting a couple of high fives from his teammates as Coach McCarthy blows the whistle to call them into a huddle. Sam's mostly not surprised by how good Dean is. His brother’s a natural athlete, quick and ruthless and in great shape. Years of hunting with Dad have made him able to think on his feet, take orders fast, and work as a team. 

He keeps his eyes on Dean as the players leave the field. He’s carrying his helmet in one hand and talking to the quarterback, Carl Rogers. Dean says he’s a good guy, for a jock. Sam’s not so sure. 

Sam gets to his feet and trudges down the bleachers to wait at the bottom for Dean to notice him. It doesn’t take long; his brother’s always had an ingrained radar for him. Dean catches his eye and cocks his head, raising his eyebrows, and Sam nods back at him. _Wait outside in the parking lot. I won’t be long._

Dean’s motorcycle is parked out by the faculty building. Sam leans against the pillion as he waits for his brother. It’s warmer around this side of the school, the faint sun just starting to set, casting long, eerie shadows over the few cars left in the faculty lot. Sam runs one hand over the scratched faded leather of the bike’s seat. The motorcycle’s a new thing for them, though the machine itself is not new, not at all. Dean won it in a poker game in the first few days they were living here. The losing guy was happy to toss the keys over instead of real money - which should’ve been a warning to them - but Dean claimed not be worried, drunk and cocky and bragging to Sam afterward about just how freaking awesome he was. 

Dean worked on the bike whenever he got the chance. Sam helped him out in between trips to the library, research for the hunt, and homework. Besides, there was nothing better to do in this dead-end town. Dean got it working perfectly, (just as well considering Dad had taken the car with him when he’d left to join Caleb), and it’s currently their only mode of transport, ‘cause there’s no freaking way Sam’s trekking the two miles out to the bus stop every day. 

It's not long before Dean comes walking around the side of the building, duffle slung over one shoulder and shadow long and jagged. 

“Hey,” Dean greets him. “Good practice?” 

“Alright,” Sam shrugs. “You?” 

“Man, fuckin’ awesome. You see me make that play?” 

“No, must’ve missed that,” Sam lies. 

Dean’s face falls slightly, but he disguises it with a shrug. “Well, I _was_ awesome. Just so you know.” 

“Of course you were, Dean,” Sam says, using his newly discovered patronizing-Dean tone of voice. It’s deeply satisfying. 

“You bet I was, sarcastic little bitch. Number one running back now.” 

“Wow, that’s just, like, _so cooool,_ Dean.” 

Dean shoves him, and Sam snickers, amused with himself. Dean tosses him one of the helmet and tells him to fix the chinstrap right. It’s what he says every single freaking time they ride the motorcycle together, Dean’s so predictable like that. Sam climbs onto the pillion, wraps his arms tightly around his brother, and presses his face into the broad leather curve of Dean’s shoulders. He jumps when Dean kick-starts the machine, the rumble and growl vibrating through every pore of his body as Dean roars out of the school gates. 

“Hold on!” Dean shouts as they finally clear the main town limits and cruise out onto the quiet back country road that leads towards the trailer park where they’re currently staying. Sam shifts closer, tightening his grip around his brother’s waist as Dean opens the throttle. The needle dances past 50 – 60 – 70 – 80 mph as they tear down the leaf-streaked road. He ducks down behind his brother’s body, using Dean as a wind-break. He can feel Dean’s heart thump under his spread fingers, feel the warmth of Dean’s body through their jammed up bodies and feel the rumble and vibration of the bike’s engine through his thighs. 

Dean lets out a loud whoop and Sam echoes it, throwing back his head and screaming out loud. He can’t help himself, crazy with exhilaration and the sheer euphoria of the moment. They’re going so fast it feels as if they’re about to take off, like that awesome moment in ET when the children fly on their bicycles past the moon. 

They fly past the entrance to the trailer park, but Dean doesn’t turn in. He just speeds up even more, the miles eaten up under them. They finally come to a halt at a crossroads, maybe ten or even fifteen miles from where they're supposed to be. Dean swerves the bike around in an 180 degree turn, the wheels kicking up dust and grit. Sam blinks and adjusts his hold on Dean’s jacket, not realizing until now that he’s been holding onto his brother so hard that his fingers have cramped up. 

Dean turns and pushes up the visor on his helmet. “Alright, Sammy?” The words are partly muffled, but Sam can read the question in Dean’s expression. 

He nods and Dean grins at him. He pushes down his visor and takes off again, taking them back the way they came. This time they make the turn into the trailer park. 

“Man, that was freakin’ awesome! Don’t tell me that wasn’t awesome!” Dean exclaims as he pulls up outside the trailer. 

Sam makes a face, trying to stop the grin from flittering across his mouth. “I guess it was kinda okay.” 

Dean kills the engine and reaches behind to slap Sam’s thigh, letting out another whoop. Sam smiles to himself for real. This is his favorite version of Dean: open and expansive and drunk on the sheer exhilaration of the moment.

“Whoa, you been enjoying yourself back there, huh, Sammy?” 

Dean cackles and turns his head to peer back at Sam, amusement in his eyes. 

“Huh – what?” 

Dean raises one eyebrow and wiggles his ass backwards against Sam’s crotch, and, ohhhh... _Shit._ He gets it now. 

He’s sporting some serious wood, and he had no fucking idea. He’s been so caught up in the ride, he hasn’t even noticed. 

He freezes, blushing furiously as he feels Dean’s amused and knowing gaze track over him. 

“Dude, don’t sweat it,” Dean says, like Sam popping wood when he’s pressed up against his brother’s ass is totally no big deal. He grabs Sam’s wrist and yanks his hand forward, around his own body, planting it over the front of his pants and the – _Holy fucking shit!_ \- unmistakable erection he’s also sporting, thick and hard and obvious through his tight jeans. “See, happens to all of us,” Dean says matter-of-factly.

Sam jerks his hand away from his brother’s – _Jesus... his brother’s fly_ like he’s been scalded. 

“Get off, Dean! What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

He slides off the bike, clumsily tripping over the kick stand as he turns his back on his brother, fingers fumbling with the strap of his helmet and face burning red. 

“Sam, c’mon, man, it’s alright, nothing to get embarrassed about,” Dean says, sounding conciliatory. Sam jumps when Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Dude, nothin’ I ain’t seen before, right? I’ve heard you jerk off a million times, and you’ve heard me jerk off–-“

“Dean! Please! Just, shut the fuck up!” Sam cries. 

He tosses the helmet to the ground and slams into the trailer, making straight for the bathroom and crashing the flimsy door behind him. 

He takes a seat on the closed toilet lid and waits for Dean to follow. Dean will probably try and talk to him, or annoy him, or tease him, it’s what Dean does, and this time around he’s most definitely given his brother plenty of ammunition. 

He places his hand over his fly and prays for his erection to go away. He tries to think of something incredibly unsexy, Dad flirting with that female police officer back in Maryland. He shudders, remembering... ‘cause yeah, gross, but it’s making no difference to his dick. The stupid thing is still stubbornly hard and throbbing in his pants. 

The front door bangs open and he flinches, hearing Dean say something and then Mason, the trailer park manager, answer him. 

“What? It’s broken again?” Dean snaps, sounding incredulous and pissed. 

“Yeah, she’s been whinin’ all fuckin’ day ‘bout not bein’ able to go to the john. I thought you said you fixed it. Where’s your father? It’s his damn job to deal with this shit,” Mason says in that horrible nasal whine that Sam has come to seriously loathe. 

He hears his brother hesitate, then say quickly, “My Dad's not here right now.” 

Fucking typical, Dean lying for Dad. And of course Dad’s not here right now, he’s never here. He’s been gone for three… four weeks now? Sam’s kinda lost count. 

“It was fixed yesterday,” Dean continues, sounding pissed. “Me and my brother fixed it.” 

“Well you did a crappy job, kid, ‘cause it sure ain’t workin’ now. Bitch hasn’t stopped fuckin’ bothering me all fuckin’ day.” 

Dean sighs then says through gritted teeth, “I guess I’ll take another look then.” 

“Yeah, you do that. Just get the fuckin’ thing fixed else I’ll be wanting your rent in cash. Backdated.” 

Mason leaves, and the door slams shut. 

Sam stays quiet, listening to his brother stomp around, gather up his tools, and then crash out of the trailer, bitching under his breath. Not that Sam can blame him, the two of them worked on that fucking toilet for two hours last night after dinner, and it was working when they left. 

These maintenance tasks are part of the deal that Dad arranged with the trailer park owner to get them rent-free accommodation for however many months they were going to be here. But Dad’s barely been here since they rolled into this shitty town, so it’s Sam and Dean who’ve been stuck with the really crappy jobs that the daily guy can’t be bothered to handle: namely, blocked pipes and backed-up toilets and emptying trash. 

Sam sighs and lets his head fall back against the thin trailer wall, his elbows against the toilet tank. He glances down at his crotch. Happily, memories of last night’s toilet fixing marathon seem to have finally deflated his stupid cock. He zips his pants and gets off the toilet. 

He hates the trailer. He hates it even more than he hates the usual motel rooms and two room houses they live in. With a motel room, it’s always temporary, the very nature of a motel room is temporary. But there’s something about this place - about the entire trailer park - that is depressingly permanent. Something that gets under your skin and lodges there. Something that brands you and marks you out as one of life’s eternal losers, something miserable and suffocating and unrelenting. They may be hunters, fighting a war that is supposed to be above and beyond normal everyday struggles of paying bills and making rent and being able to hold your head up at school, but Sam knows that even after they move on from this place, (because unlike a lot of the poor assholes who live here, they _will_ move on), there’s going to be some part of him that will never be able to completely shake it off. 

 

*************************

 

On Thursday evening, Sam does his homework at Ali’s farm. The two of them work through a problem set, sitting close together at Ali’s desk in his big attic room, the sounds of Ali’s father and the farm hands working in the barn next door filtering through Ali’s open window. Ali’s room is sparse, no rugs or carpet on the smooth wood floors, and barely any furniture except for Ali’s enormous bed, dresser, old carved armoire and two overflowing bookcases. There are no posters on the wall, but his cork board is covered with articles about last year’s soccer team’s winning season, a color coded copy of his class schedule and several Polaroids of Ali and his dog, Jack. 

For the last twenty minutes their legs have been pressed together, Ali’s thigh a solid block of denimed heat against Sam’s. It’s making Sam jittery and self-aware in a way that he hates, as if he's conscious of every muscle in his body. 

Ali puts down his pen, and Sam stills. He flinches, and almost jumps when Ali’s hand lands on his thigh, though he was expecting it. The air around them feels still, tight and muffled, like they’re in their own private vacuum. 

He hears Ali lick his lips and say, “Sam,” in a quiet, hesitant voice. 

Sam says nothing, just breathing in and out. He doesn’t flinch but keeps dreadfully still as Ali’s hand edges up his thigh, higher and higher, his cock beginning to swell in his jeans with every inch. Ali hesitates again, swallows audibly, and Sam’s leg jerks in an involuntary spasm. 

“No, don’t,” he says, though he doesn’t actually move or make an effort to push Ali away. 

“I’m not gay, Sam,” Ali says abruptly. 

It’s so unexpected, such a non-sequitur that Sam has the crazy urge to laugh out loud, ‘cause, seriously... what? He hasn’t even thought of that, of sexuality and labels and saying shit out loud. Is that what Ali thinks this is? What they’ve been doing? 

“I know,” he says. 

“This is something guys do together,” Ali protests, “it’s normal.” 

Sam thinks about telling Dean what he and his “geek friend” have been doing in between homework and class projects and mini chess tournaments. He knows exactly what his brother’s reaction would be. 

“I read it somewhere,” Ali adds. 

Sam believes him. Ali’s exactly the sort of boy to have read up on what normal adolescent boy behavior should be and then try to emulate it, or at least try to track his own behavior alongside it, like he's conducting a social studies experiment.

He says nothing, and they both go quiet again. Ali’s hand is still on Sam’s thigh and Sam’s cock is still half-hard. He thinks about saying no and stopping things right now. He thinks about it as Ali makes his move, hand creeping up Sam’s leg to Sam's blatantly hard dick. He’s still thinking about telling Ali to stop a minute later when Ali’s got Sam’s cock out and is jacking it with awkward but effective jerks of his wrist.

He doesn’t stop it, and he comes all over Ali’s small, ink-stained fingers. Ali turns away from him, opens a drawer in his desk and fumbles out a box of Kleenex. His eyes are shiny, face flushed and lips half-parted as he avoids Sam’s gaze, turning to stare down at his page of quadratic equations like they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen. 

Sam returns the favor for Ali because it’s only polite, because Ali’s supposed to be his best friend and because Ali is one of the only people at school who talks to him. And because, secretly, there’s a very real part of him that enjoys it. He likes to see with his own eyes the pleasure that he’s giving. He likes the slim, silky feel of Ali’s cock in his hand, and he likes to imagine the stunned and horror-struck look on his big brother’s face if he ever knew what his baby brother was up to. 

 

**************************************

 

Ali gives him a ride back to the trailer park, dropping him outside the entrance and leaving with a cheerful wave, all awkwardness and embarrassment already forgotten. Sam raises his hand to wave back, and watches the taillights disappear over the ridge. 

He thrusts his hands into his pockets and turns into the park. Most of the trailers are still lit. The flickering lights from TV screens and muffled sounds of talk shows and reruns of football games filter through thin metal walls as he trudges up the lane to their trailer. A few people have their doors open, some sitting outside, smoking or drinking. A group of five guys are outside Bill Marmby’s trailer, drinking beers, smoking and conversing in low gruff tones. They look up as Sam passes by, with a narrowed, suspicious cut to their eyes, and Sam’s breath catches for a moment, imagining that they can see inside his head and know what he was doing only an hour earlier. But they barely notice him. He's just that kid who empties the trash or fixes the broken toilet. They go back to their conversation, their raspy nicotine-soaked voices reminding him with a wrench of Dad and his hunting buddies talking strategy and lore and good vs. evil until late in the night while he and Dean are supposed to be asleep. 

The lights in the Winchester trailer are on low, and there’s no sound of the TV. For a moment Sam thinks that Dean’s still out, remembering that he’d told Dean he’d be back later than this, it’s scarcely nine thirty after all, then he hears a gasp of breath, and of course, he’s so freaking dumb. His brother’s got company, making the most of little Sammy's absence. 

He pauses by the front steps and rolls his eyes. The gesture's for his own benefit as there's no one around to see him. But what the fuck is he supposed to do now? Wait outside? Here? Gatecrash Dean’s little party? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s walked in on Dean with one of his conquests. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s listened to his brother having sex, hearing Dean orgasm is a regular occurrence in Sam’s life. But Dean would bitch at him if he were to break things up now. He'd call him a fucking cock-block for the rest of the night, and probably a lot of tomorrow, and sure, it’s kinda funny, but he hates Dean being pissed with him. 

There’s another moan, louder this time, deeper and almost gravelly, and Sam frowns. It's not Dean's voice, he knows Dean's voice, but it sounds too deep to be a girl. 

He tiptoes carefully onto the metal steps, putting one hand against the door for balance. He peers carefully through the narrow, dirty window by the door. Dean’s on the couch, and he’s not alone, and the person on top of Dean is most definitely not a girl. 

Sam freezes, heart skipping a beat and mouth falling open in shock. 

Jesus Christ, Dean’s making out with a dude. 

The air evaporates from his lungs and Sam just gapes as he watches the guy on top of Dean lean down to take Dean’s mouth in a kiss. He watches Dean’s arm with his familiar leather bracelets encircle the guy to cup his ass. He watches Dean's hand with the familiar silver ring snag in the guy’s frayed denim pockets and tug him closer. 

Holy shit. 

Sam steps off the porch and backs away. His heart is beating, adrenaline fast, like they’re on a hunt. Except of course there is no hunt, just Dean and some guy dry humping on the couch. 

He hesitates outside the front of the trailer, not sure which way to go now or what to do. He stares at the mushy ground, disturbed and lumpy from the rain and the tracks of the motorcycle. If he smoked then this would be a good time to have a cigarette. Dean smokes sometimes, though never when Dad’s around, he's too much of a good little solider for that. 

Shit, Dad. What the hell would Dad say if he knew about Dean’s sudden taste in guys? 

So, does Dean have a taste for guys? The evidence right now points to a big fat fucking yes. But is this guy the first? It’s not like Sam can tell anything from what he’s just glimpsed. He can't tell who the guy is or if he knows Dean or if this is a one off like all of Dean’s other one-night-stands. Or if... shit. Maybe Sam knows him too? Maybe he’s in school with them, maybe he’s on the team with Dean? 

Sam worries his lip, fingers clenching into fists in his pockets. He glances at the trailer. He needs to know who this guy is. He has to know what’s going on with his brother. He deserves to know. 

He creeps around the back of the trailer. It's shadowed, not visible to any nosy neighbors or to the people inside. He treads softly, taking care not to make a noise. The ground here is even softer underfoot and he thinks disgustedly of the shitty pipe-work common to every trailer in this craphole of a park. He knows it intimately after all the pipes Dean and he have been forced to unblock and dismantle over the past few weeks, the clogs of human and animal hair, the food and other shit they’ve had to remove. He’s reached a good spot. The window above him gives a much better view of the couch than the one at the front. He presses one hand against the cold dusty wall, bracing himself, and he peers inside. 

The guy is still on top of Dean, his head bowed and face hidden, though Sam can make out short dark hair, just beginning to go bald on the top of his head. His body is bigger than Dean’s, his shoulders and arms thicker and more muscular, his skin slightly more tan. One of his hands is cupping the side of Dean’s face, his fingers splayed out over Dean’s cheek and temple, and thumb resting against Dean’s parted lips. His other hand is caught in the waistband of Dean’s jeans, the rocking jerking movement of his arm wholly familiar to Sam. One of Dean’s arms is tossed over his head, draped over the arm of the couch in a languid, decadent sort of a sprawl that reminds Sam with a wrench of how Dean looks when he watches TV. Dean’s other arm is curled lazily around the guy, the tips of his fingers disappearing under the hem of the guy’s flannel shirt. 

Sam swallows and moves his attention to Dean’s face. His brother’s eyes are half-closed, his expression serene and blissful, mouth shaped around the guy’s thumb. There’s a kind of intimacy in Dean's face that makes Sam feel funny. Dean’s face is flushed, and Sam can hear him murmuring something too low to make out. Dean arches his hips up, ass momentarily leaving the couch, and Sam realizes with a lurch of panic that he’s about to watch his brother come. 

He yanks his gaze away, feeling like he’s been scalded. Behind him, his brother is coming into some unknown dude’s hand and letting that same dude lean down and kiss him in an intimate and private way that bares no relation to the big brother Sam knows so well. 

He stands in silence, with his heart beating wildly and stomach churning queasily. He wonders if Dean’s going to jerk the guy off now. If once Dean’s gotten his, he’s going to return the favor, just like Sam did only an hour before in Ali’s bedroom. The thought makes him want to laugh out loud, a dirty, crazy little snicker building up in his chest. He and Dean both exchanged hand-jobs with guys on the same freaking night. Well, at least they’re still in sync. Dad would be proud. 

He has no idea exactly how much time has passed. It feels like years, but it’s probably only been five minutes since he waved goodbye to Ali. He realizes distantly that he’s shivering, despite the prickly heat in his gut and the churning in his belly. He decides that it’s probably okay to look now. Dean and the guy must have finished whatever it was they were doing. 

He turns around and peers through the window once more. Dean and the guy are standing up. Fully dressed thank God, though Dean’s shirt has a few buttons undone, his hair mussed, cheeks pink and expression satisfied. He looks like he does just after he’s gotten laid: smug and satisfied and all’s right with the world. The other guy has his back to Sam and is shrugging a navy hunting vest over his flannel shirt. He says something to Dean, the words muffled and low, and Dean chuckles, that curl to his mouth that means he’s a little embarrassed. Dean bows his head, takes a step towards the guy, and puts his hands on his shoulders. He leans in and presses his lips to the guy’s. The guy’s hands move to cradle Dean’s face as they kiss. 

Sam’s pulse hammers but he can’t look away. He can't stop looking at his brother making out with a dude, just a couple of feet from where he’s standing. He can see it all so clearly - the line of drool on their lips as they break apart, the plush pink sheen of Dean’s mouth. The guy keeps one hand on Dean’s cheek, cradling his face like it’s something precious. Dean’s eyes are wide and locked on the guy’s face, naked and intimate in a way Sam isn’t used to seeing on his brother. This obviously isn't just a one night stand. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Dean knows this guy. Hell, Dean _likes_ this guy. 

The thought makes his throat feel tight and painful, like he’s about to cry. He clenches his fingers into fists and watches Dean back away from the guy, saying something. He can actually make out the words now, Dean’s voice suddenly clear once more: _“Gotta go, man, my brother will be back soon…”_

The guy nods and turns around and Sam grabs onto the window in surprise. 

It’s Paul Ferguson. Paul Ferguson, the richest guy in town. Paul Ferguson, the head booster for the school's football team. Paul Ferguson, who is not much younger than Dad. Paul Ferguson, who is most definitely married to a woman. Paul Ferguson was just making out with Sam’s brother. 

Sam gapes in disbelief. He watches Paul Ferguson take the couple of steps towards the door and hesitate. He turns around with one hand on the handle, and his eyes drink in Dean like he’s trying to memorize every inch of him. And then he’s gone, shutting the door quickly behind him. 

Sam listens to the crunch of gravel as Paul Ferguson walks away, and he wonders distractedly where he’s parked his car. He’s got an expensive ride, one of those huge-ass SUV’s that cost upwards of $50k, with one of those douchey personalized license plates. However you look at it, it’s pretty noticeable. Surely the guy can’t be stupid enough to have parked it anywhere near the trailer park. 

The Winchesters may not have been in town very long, but Sam knows the town’s history better than most of its residents, partly due to the research he and Dean did for the hunt and partly due to Ali taking his role as town ambassador very seriously. Sam knows that Paul Ferguson, scion of the wealthy Ferguson family, is a big deal.. He's the Chief Booster for the high school football team, former mayor and grandson of the town's founder. Paul Ferguson is _the_ big cheese in these parts. The Ferguson family owns a chain of food stores (Ferguson Foods), a couple of family oriented restaurants, (Ferguson’s), a huge-ass car dealership (Ferguson Motors), and even a strip club (La Piñata, the only business not to bear the Ferguson name). His money pays for the football program; it bought the new field and the new bleachers and brought in the current coaching staff from a rival town. Paul Ferguson’s wedding to former Miss Oklahoma seven years ago is still spoken of by town residents like Ali’s parents in awed, respectful tones. Paul Ferguson is a local celebrity, and now it seems he is also Dean's lover. 

What is Dean thinking? What is Dean doing? This isn’t some one-night hookup, this isn’t some high school fuck. This is Dean having an affair with a married man who happens to be the most powerful guy in town. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut, like someone’s reached inside his chest and rummaged around and taken his heart in a death-grip. He can't believe that Dean would do this to them.

He doesn’t think he’s blinked since he saw Paul Ferguson’s face. He forces himself to blink, his hands still so tightly curled into fists that his wrists are cramping. Slowly he unclenches them and rests one hand against the cold dusty wall of the trailer. He gets to his tiptoes again and peers through the window once more. 

Dean’s lying on the couch, slouching in his usual position, a beer resting between his thighs and remote in his hand. This is how he’s presenting himself in time for Sam’s arrival. This is the fake show he’s going to put on for Sam. And if Sam were to ask him, then he’ll make up some bullshit about going out for a beer with the guys, about coming back here and watching the game for the rest of the evening, about getting a burger on his way back and if Sam’s still hungry then there’s some take-out pizza from the other night in the refrigerator. He’ll lie there on the couch, nonchalant and cool, and he’ll fucking _lie_ to Sam’s face to protect that fucking pervert. 

Sam stares at him long enough for his eyes to glaze over and his head to start aching. Finally, he forces himself to look away, and slowly, he steps away from the trailer. 

He slides his body between a couple of the empty trailers, mud and dust scraping against his – Dean’s – jacket, probably leaving marks and stains. Not that anyone will notice or care, not in his family. 

Dean’s never lied to him before. Dad’s the one who lies to him, but Dean’s always been straight with him, the only person in his sucky life that he can rely on. 

Except that’s not true anymore. How many times has Dean been with Paul Ferguson before now? How many lies has Dean told him to keep his dirty little secret? 

He doesn’t want to go back in there. He doesn’t want to be in the same room where Dean just fucked around with Paul Ferguson. It’s disgusting and sordid, and it’s so _beneath_ them and what they stand for. Dean’s so much better than that. 

He should tell Dad. It would serve Dean right if Dad found out. Dad would put an end to it. Dad would fucking _kill_ Paul Ferguson, Dad wouldn’t give a shit that he’s the most powerful guy in town. Dad would put him in the fucking ground for messing with his boy. And the fucker would deserve it. He would deserve everything coming to him - being exposed for the filthy pervert he is, fucking around with a high school student half his age. It would end him. And Dean would know that it wasn’t acceptable, that he couldn’t go around doing that sort of shit. 

He should call Dad right now. 

The thought fills him with purpose. He heads towards the phone booth by the entrance. Thankfully, it’s not busy, and he has enough quarters in his pocket to get through to Dad’s cell.

He wrenches the door to the booth open, wrinkling his nose at the customary smell of piss and beer. He lifts the receiver and slots in the quarters, punching in Dad’s cell phone number. It rings five times, and he’s about to give up and hang up, ‘cause what kinda message can he leave? He can’t explain everything in a fucking phone message. 

“Yeah?” 

Sam flinches at Dad’s voice. He licks his lips, says, “Dad?” 

“Sammy? Everything okay?” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah. I’m fine, Dad.” 

“Good, that’s good. What about your brother? Where’s Dean?” 

Sam hesitates, ‘cause Dean...Dean is _not_ okay, Dean’s seriously fucked up and this is why he’s calling Dad right now, to let him know what’s going on with Dean, to make him come back and sort things out. But Dad will be livid, Dad will punish Dean. He’ll tell Dean how disappointed he is in him, and Dean will get that heartbroken, damaged look, and Sam can’t stand seeing that look on his brother’s face. 

He can’t do it. He can’t tattle on Dean. 

What Dean’s doing is wrong, and there’s part of Sam that fucking _hates_ his brother right now, that can’t bear thinking about him, but getting Dad involved, turning Dad against Dean.... However angry he is, he can’t do that to his brother. 

“He’s fine too, Dad. He’s just at home, watching TV.” 

There’s a noise at the other end of the phone line, a muffled sound as Dad says something, covering the receiver with his hand so Sam can’t hear his exact words. When Dad gets back on the line he sounds distracted and vaguely annoyed in that way he always seems to be when speaking to them on the phone. 

“Well, that’s good, Sammy. Look – I gotta go – Caleb thinks he might have something.” 

“Oh right, okay, Dad. When do you think-–“ 

But the rest of his question is cut off, the dial tone buzzing in Sam’s ear. Dad’s hung up. 

Sam bites his lip, stares murderously at the phone, and slams it back down onto the hook. 

What a fucking waste of time and money. Tomorrow’s lunch money wasted. And it was his own fault, chickening out when it came to the crunch. 

_Pussy_ , he says to himself, lifting his lip into a sneer and catching his reflection in the glass pane of the booth. _You’re a fucking pussy Sam Winchester._

He slams out the booth and walks toward their trailer. 

He pushes the door open. The hinge creaks, flimsy metal scraping against the warped linoleum floor like the ugly piece of crap it is. 

Dean looks up from the TV as Sam forces the door shut behind him, eyebrows raised and expression welcoming. “Hey, man. You have a good time?” 

Sam shrugs and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t feel like talking He’s not even sure he _can_ talk. He can’t look at Dean, remembering the look on his face when Paul Ferguson cupped his cheek and kissed him on the lips. 

“Sam?” Dean prompts, sounding concerned. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, Dean! Christ’s sake, just leave me alone!” he snarls.

He stomps across the floor and slams the bedroom door behind him, Dean’s wide-eyed, incredulous expression burned against his retinas. He sinks to the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands. His chest is heaving, stupid hot tears burning at the back of his eye sockets. Christ, he’s pathetic, what a great impression of an emo-teen. Any minute now Dean’s gonna come in here and mock him. 

He braces himself, waiting for Dean to come in and give him shit for acting like such a prissy, emo bitch. Or even worse, for Dean to sit down and try and figure out what’s crawled up Sammy’s ass this time. But Dean doesn’t come, and Sam’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. 

He gets into bed because it’s late and because he can’t concentrate on anything else, not on homework, not on reading, not even on listening to Dean’s old Walkman. He strips down to his undershirt and boxers and crawls under the covers. His gut churns and his chest feels tight every time he hears a noise from the other room, Dean getting up to go to the bathroom, couch cushions creaking as Dean sits again, the puffy sound of the refrigerator opening and closing as Dean fetches himself another beer. 

He falls asleep at some point, tumbling into a thick, heavy sleep filled with disturbing dreams and memories of that time three years ago when Dean was clawed up by the harpy. It was one of the few times Sam was truly scared for his brother’s life. 

He wakes up feeling thick-headed and fuzzy. His heart thumps from the dream and the memory of how it felt to hold Dean on his lap in the backseat of the car while Dad broke land speed records to get them to the nearest ER. He blinks; the light’s beginning to edge through the long, thin strip where the grubby, fake-velvet curtains don’t meet at their small window. He glances to his left and sees Dean bundled up in the covers beside him, lying on his front. His cheek is smushed into the pillow, his lips parted and eyelashes fluttering like black spidery curtains against his cheeks. 

Looking at his brother like this, vulnerable and still and quiet, makes Sam feel uncomfortable and twitchy. He slides out of bed, pulls on his clothes and shoes and tiptoes out of the trailer, carefully closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam heads to the bleachers at lunch, takes out the donut he bought from the cafeteria with his remaining quarter, and watches the football team practice. It’s Friday, and they have a game tonight, the highlight of the social calendar for this dead-end town. According to Dean, the head coach, Coach McCarthy is worried. The team may be 4-1 ahead so far this season, but no one’s prepared to accept another defeat if they want to make the play-offs, and the Dragons _always_ make the play-offs. 

Sam doesn’t give a shit about the winning season, about the town’s ludicrous expectations, about the fucking Dragons. Sam doesn’t even care about watching his brother train. Today, Sam’s gaze barely touches Dean. Today, Sam’s attention is utterly and wholly fixed on one person: Paul Ferguson, standing by the sideline, shoulder to shoulder with Coach McCarthy. 

“Who does he think he is?” he mutters under his breath. 

“Huh?” Next to him, Ali jerks his head up from his physics homework, blinks at him. “What did you say, man?” 

“Nothing,” Sam grits out, his gaze not straying from Paul Ferguson’s tall form as he breaks away from Coach McCarthy to saunter up and down the sideline. 

He’s got his hands in the pockets of his hunting vest, the same damn hunting vest he was wearing last night, and he’s flapping them outwards, exclaiming out loud when the offence makes a particularly good play or fucks something up. Sam watches him stroll towards the cooler, watches him bend and take up one of the bottles, drinking what is only supposed to be for the players, though none of the coaches or players make a complaint. He’s the big guy after all, the one with the money, the one paying for this field and these bleachers and their first, second and third kits. Perhaps Dean is part of the payment? Part of Paul Ferguson’s pound of flesh? Perhaps every year he gets to choose one of the players to make into his bitch, like a king with his own private harem, the modern day, small town American version of the _droit du seigneur_. 

“You ready to go back in?” 

Ali’s voice yanks Sam from his bitter contemplation, and he drags his gaze away, unhappy and frowning. “What?” 

Ali nods towards the school building behind them. “Lunch is nearly over, and we need to set up for the acceleration experiment.” 

“You go ahead,” Sam answers distractedly. “I just wanna – I need to speak to my brother.” 

“Oh, sure, okay then,” Ali answers, as cheerful and ignorant as ever. He pats Sam on the knee, a move that’s supposed to be friendly, placatory, but his hand lingers a little too long. 

Sam clears his throat pointedly and Ali snatches his hand away, ducking his head quickly, though not quick enough to hide his furious blush. 

“I, uh, yeah, see you in class,” Ali stutters and he clambers over the bleachers, snatching up his bag along the way. 

Sam watches him go, and slowly puts his own hand over the spot on his knee where Ali touched him; it still feels warm, tingly. He swallows, thoughts of Ali immediately evaporating as he turns his attention back to the field, his eyes immediately narrowing as he watches Coach McCarthy calling the players in. Paul Ferguson's standing beside him and the other three assistant coaches, eyeing the players in front of them as McCarthy goes into his big game-day speech. Sam can’t see the asshole’s face from this distance, can’t tell what he’s looking at, but he knows, he just fucking _knows_ that the sonofabitch is looking at Dean, watching his brother like he’s got some fucking right to him. 

He swallows convulsively, the anger welling up in his belly, burning at the back of his throat like that time he had to take the cure for the basilisk poison, the corrosive feel of it eating away at his insides. 

Coach McCarthy dismisses the team, and they head off towards the locker rooms, a blur of red and yellow. Sam doesn’t watch them go, too busy watching McCarthy and Paul Ferguson exchanging a few words, shaking hands, Paul Ferguson reaching to pat the coach on the shoulder, a manly, patronizing sort of a gesture, before he turns around and stalks off the field. 

“Sam!” 

Sam jumps at the sound of his name, shades his eyes and looks down. Dean’s standing at the bottom of the bleachers, peering up at him. 

“Sammy!” Dean shouts again, gesturing for him to come down. 

Sam sighs and gets to his feet, descends slowly, reluctantly. 

“You been watching me train? Aww, didn’t know you cared, little bro.” 

There’s some part of Sam that wants to strike out at his brother, wants to hit and punch him, fucking _hurt_ him, make him feel as angry and upset and fucking _dirty_ as he’s feeling right now. 

He manages a shrug, doesn’t look at Dean. “Whatever.” 

“Aww, dude, don’t deny it!” Dean reaches out, claps him on the shoulder, stupid, oblivious Dean. Sam wrenches out of his grasp, scowls at the ground. “Jesus, don’t fuckin’ tell me you’re still sulking!” 

“I’m not sulking!” he protests. 

He wants to say it now, wants to throw it in Dean’s face: _I know, I know, I know…I know what you’re doing…_

“Whatever,” Dean says breezily. He turns his head, looks away, and Sam risks a glance at him; the pads he’s wearing make him look bigger, invulnerable, his shoulders ridiculously wide and hips stupidly narrow in contrast, the curve of his ass looking almost obscene in the tight yellow spandex. This is what girls go crazy for, he knows that objectively, the stupid jock football players in their uniforms. This is what Paul Ferguson probably loves, maybe he’s touched Dean like this, maybe the first time – the first time he put his hand on Dean he was wearing this uniform. 

“Sammy, look, I do get it, you know.” 

Sam blinks, jerks his head up, surprised. Dean’s tone is sympathetic, understanding, and Sam knows that if he dares to look at him again, then he’ll be eying him with that fond big brother look, the one that has followed him around his entire life, and he can’t take that right now. 

“It sucks, being sixteen. I remember what it was like. I was, like, Christ, dude, I was popping wood all the freaking time, a stiff breeze would give me one.” 

_What the fuck?_

“What happened the other night – on the bike – you don’t gotta be embarrassed with me. You know that.” 

Oh God. Dean still thinks he’s embarrassed about the motorcycle ride, about his stupid dick getting hard pressed up against Dean’s ass. How can Dean be so fucking stupid, so fucking oblivious? 

“I’m not embarrassed! Jesus, Dean!” he hisses. “I know,it was just. It was nothing, okay? Just quit talking about it.” 

Dean raises his hands, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Alright, alright, don’t getcha panties in a twist, man. Just trying to be understanding here.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t bother, you suck at it.” 

Dean chuckles and body-checks him, which totally isn’t fair with all the freaking body armor he’s wearing. Sam stumbles, bangs his shin against the first row of bleachers. He glares at his brother, who’s looking smug and amused. Fucking Dean, fucking asshole. 

“Look, I got to go to class.” 

“Okay. You gonna be at the game tonight?” Dean asks. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sam sneers. 

“Such a bitch, Sammy.” 

“Yeah, and you’re a jerk, Dean.” 

Dean laughs out loud, his expression lighting up momentarily. Sam’s mouth twitches despite himself and he dares a glance at his brother. Dean catches his eye, grins wider, and Sam feels his stomach lurch, his throat close up. Dean reaches to squeeze his shoulder before he spins around and jogs off in the direction of the locker rooms. 

 

****************************

 

One minute from the end of the second quarter, Dean goes down, floored by a tackle from an enormous opposition linebacker, a kid who looks like he’s been fed bovine growth hormones since he was in his high-chair. Sam’s on his feet, hand on his mouth, heart thumping furiously. Ali’s beside him, babbling incoherent commentary, “Hey, look, it’s okay, Sam, he’s getting up, look, he’s moving, though we should totally get a penalty for that, I’m sure that tackle wasn’t legal,” looking over at his parents sitting on his other side for support. 

Sam tunes him out, tunes out Ali and Mr. and Mrs. Deels, the entire stadium, and he tells himself sternly to get a grip. Dean is moving, at least he seems to have rolled over onto his back, though he’s not getting up, and Coach Petersen, the assistant coach who also does all the PT shit for the team, is running out onto the field, shouldering aside Dean’s concerned teammates and the unrepentant linebacker to get to Dean. 

There’s no reason for Sam to be worried. He’s seen his brother passed out, bleeding to death, unconscious, fucking _poisoned_ a dozen times before now. Dean’s tough, he’s gone head to head with werewolves and harpies and vengeful spirits, he can take a football tackle from an freakishly oversized teenager. 

One of the assistant coaches and one of the benched players bring the stretcher on. Sam watches them maneuver Dean onto it, watches him be quickly carted off the field, the crowd rising to their feet and applauding as Dean’s replacement sprints onto the field. 

“You should go to him, honey.” Ali’s mom reaches across her son to pat Sam consolingly on his shoulder. “Half’s nearly over, and you’ll feel better if you can see for yourself.” 

Sam nods distractedly, gives her a weak smile, and starts to push through the crowd, trying to make his way to the field through the excited press of people. 

It takes him almost ten minutes to get to the locker rooms, and then one of the assistant coaches eyes him warily, unwilling to let any random person into the hallowed sanctuary of the Dragons’ locker-rooms. 

“I – uh - I’m Sam Winchester, my brother, Dean-“ he babbles. 

The coach’s expression clears, and he nods, jerks his head towards the treatment room. “He’s in there.” 

Sam doesn’t bother thanking him, just slides past him, and past the dejected looking players being berated by the coach. They barely notice him and he gains the treatment room with no further problem. 

Dean’s lying on one of the treatment tables, one ankle elevated, bandaged and covered in ice. He’s shirtless, and holding another bag of ice to a wicked looking set of bruises and scrapes to his left side, his expression scrunched up, eyes narrowed in pain. There are a couple of butterfly bandages to his cheekbone, and another nasty blue-red bruise just under his left eye. He actually looks pretty okay, the injuries light compared to some he’s had in the past. 

“Dean?” he says, coming forward. 

Dean turns his head, looks at him, huffing out a breath. “Sam.” 

“You alright?” 

Dean manages a sort half-shrug with one shoulder; the other’s probably too painful to move. “Yup, nothing I ain’t had before, right?” 

“Right.” Sam’s mouth twitches, curling up into a grin when his eyes meet Dean’s. “You’ve had worse.” 

“Way worse.” Dean rolls his eyes, and grins self-consciously. “Still, hurts like a motherfucker, dude. Think I might’ve cracked a rib.” 

He removes the bag of ice from his left side. The bruises are pretty extensive, down most of his side, over his rib-cage. Sam peers down, reaches out to touch gently. Dean winces, curses under his breath. 

“I think you might be right.” 

“No shit.” 

“Here, let me do this, lay back.” Sam takes the ice-pack from Dean’s hand and Dean lays back, head pillowed on a couple of towels. Sam gently applies the ice to the bruising, hearing Dean’s sharp intake of breath. 

“You need to get an x-ray.” 

“How? We’ll have to go to the hospital for that. And without Dad here," he breaks off, worries his lip. “We got no insurance. And we can’t use any fake cards, they know who we are.” 

“So? I’ll get one of the coaches to take us there, the school can pay or something. It’s their fault you got hurt. They should totally pay.” He doesn’t realize how fierce he sounds until Dean chuckles then winces. “What?” he demands. “What’s so funny?” 

“You.” Dean sounds fond. He reaches out with one hand, pats Sam’s arm. “Getting all momma bear. It’s cute.” 

“Shut up.” Sam rolls his eyes. 

Dean huffs out another laugh and leans his head back. “Man, this fuckin’ sucks. If I wanted to get injured, I shoulda gone with Dad. He’s gonna be so pissed when he hears I got beat up playing football.” 

Shit, Sam hadn’t thought of that, but Dean’s right. Dad has little patience with injuries and sickness when they happen in the line of duty – in his private battle with the forces of evil – he’s going to be severely pissed if he finds out that Dean’s laid up with a sports injury. And looking at Dean’s ankle, not to mention his bruised ribs, Dean is going to be out of hunting for at least two weeks, though he’ll push himself hard to recover before then. 

They have to wait until the end of the game before one of the coaches can drive Dean to the hospital. Sam’s practically livid by this point, cursing this shitty school and its misplaced priorities. But it’s a football town, and football comes first, and making sure the team gets that W always takes precedence. Dean is pretty matter-of-fact about it. The painkillers have started working, and he seems more concerned with knowing whether or not the team won (they didn’t – haha – serves the fuckers right) than when he’s going to get his stupid ass to the hospital. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” Sam looks up as Coach Petersen, Coach McCarthy and – fuck – Paul Ferguson finally stroll into the treatment room. 

“Good, it’s good,” Dean answers. 

“He needs to go to the hospital,” Sam declares. 

All three men turn to look at him, expressions on their faces ranging from: _who the fuck are you?_ to _get out of my locker-room, maggot_. Not that Sam’s deterred, he’s used to dealing with a pissed-off John Winchester, these guys are small-fry in comparison. 

“One of his ribs might be broken,” Sam continues. “He needs an x-ray. Right, Dean?” He looks at his brother for backup, but Dean’s looking apologetic, embarrassed by his pushy little brother. Well fuck that, Dean’s too much of a martyr for his own good, and Sam’s willing to put up with that shit when it’s Dad, but he’s not putting up with it from these assholes. 

“One of you should drive us to the hospital now,” he concludes. 

“Sam," Dean hisses. 

“Shut up, Dean. You’re hurt. Dad’s out of town and you need to get an x-ray. You got hurt playing football, so it’s the team’s responsibility to make sure you get the right sort of treatment. I’m sure Coach doesn’t want you on the injury list for the next few games. Right, Coach?” 

He turns towards Coach McCarthy, one eyebrow raised, trying to replicate that look he’s seen his father work, the taking-no-bullshit-scary-as-crap John Winchester look. It probably looks ridiculous on his sixteen year old face, nothing like Dad’s glowering eyes and gravelly voice.

McCarthy looks taken aback for a moment, the other coach looks kinda pissed, and to Sam’s annoyance, Paul Ferguson just looks amused. 

“The kid’s right, Jake,” says Paul Ferguson to McCarthy. He turns to look at Dean, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a conspiratorial grin as he meets Dean’s eyes which makes Sam’s skin crawl. How dare that creep even look at his brother. 

“Dean, you got one tough-ass little brother there. You should be proud. C’mon, I’ll take you both to the hospital.” 

He smiles and pats Sam on the shoulder, all big-ass paternalistic douchebag. Sam grits his teeth and stares down at the floor, trying to get himself under control, trying not to flinch in the spot where that creepy pervert dared to touch him. When he finally raises his head, he sees his brother glaring at him, looking seriously pissed, but also kinda underneath it all… reluctantly impressed. 

 

*****************************************

 

He’s forced to ride shotgun in Paul Ferguson’s jeep for the ride to the hospital, thank God it’s only fifteen miles away. Dean’s lying across the huge back seat, his eyes half closed, face against the window, holding an icepack to his side, under his thin sweatshirt. Sam’s gaze slides sideways as he watches Paul Ferguson drive, narrows in on his big hands curled around the wheel. Those hands have touched Dean, those hands have been on Dean’s cock, those hands have jerked Dean off and cradled his face. 

He wrenches his gaze away and turns to stare out the passenger side window. He feels sick. 

They don’t have to wait around in the hospital. Paul Ferguson goes directly up to the desk, asks for some doctor he knows. All the staff seem to know him and rush around him like they’re acting out the dictionary definition of obsequious. Sam scowls to himself, but he daren’t complain out loud, not when Dean’s already been whooshed off towards imaging for his x-rays. 

They’re only there a couple of hours, long enough for Dean to get his diagnosis: ribs not broken, but some serious contusions that need treating, one badly sprained and swollen ankle. He gets himself bandaged and wrapped and injected as appropriate while Sam collects the painkillers and antibiotics from the pharmacy, and then all three of them get back into Paul Ferguson’s jeep for the ride back. 

Sam doesn’t bother asking if it’s Paul Ferguson or the school that have picked up the bill. He guesses that they’re pretty much the same thing, and anyway, there’s nothing he can do about it right now. Dean needs the treatment and they have no money. This particular battle he can’t fight, though the thought of being beholden to Paul Ferguson, knowing that he’s the one who paid for Dean’s treatment, eats away at him on the journey home, and he listens in bitter silence to the little comedy his brother and Paul Ferguson play out for his benefit. 

Paul Ferguson turns around in his seat as they pull out of the hospital, looks at Dean for a little too long for Sam’s comfort before he says, “So, where do you live, Dean? I’ll drop you there.” 

Dean spells out the address of the trailer park and Paul Ferguson hesitates again, runs his hand over his jaw in a way that reminds Sam with a wrench of his father. 

“That’s the park on Twelve Mile Road, isn’t it?” 

Sam snorts under his breath, can’t stop himself from saying, “Seems kinda odd to me that you don’t know. You used to be mayor here, right?” 

Paul Ferguson shrugs, doesn’t look at him, and Sam can practically hear his brain whirring as he thinks up a response. 

“It’s, uh, that was a few years ago, Sam, and I kinda suck with directions. It’s been a while.” 

“Right, right, and I bet there wasn’t much call for canvassing on our side of town,” Sam adds. He can’t stop himself, the sardonic sneer to his voice startlingly obvious. 

Paul Ferguson doesn’t say anything else, and they ride back the rest of the way in excruciating silence. 

 

“What the fuck was all that?” Dean hisses after Sam’s helped him out of the car, after they’ve waved goodbye to Paul Ferguson, and Dean has thanked him profusely for his kindness. 

“What?” Sam asks, all disingenuous innocence, as they hop and slide and fumble towards the couch. 

Dean sinks down into the couch, a puffy exhaling sound coming from the peeling vinyl cushions. Dean tilts his head back to meet Sam’s gaze, narrows his eyes forebodingly. 

“You know what I’m talkin’ about, Sam. Don’t play dumb with me.” 

Sam turns his back on his brother, gets up to place the paper bag of medication and first-aid supplies on the kitchen counter beside the half-full sugar bowl and their dirty soup-stained mugs. 

“You were embarrassing me back there,” Dean continues. “What was with that pissing contest with Paul Ferguson? Guy was doing us a favor!” 

“Right, sure he was,” Sam sneers. He turns around, pressing his back against the counter, bracing his hands on the warped damp edges of the counter-top. 

Dean’s look shifts slightly, from anger through to confusion and exasperation. He shakes his head. “Seriously, dude! What is with you at the moment? I thought you were over this teenage bullshit. But there was that crap the other day, and this now. I don’t get it, Sam. What is it? Is it school? Are you having trouble with some asshole at school?” 

Jesus, some asshole at school. He wishes. He could deal with that. It’s been years since he’s had to involve Dean in taming any loud-mouthed asshole bullies. He can take care of himself. 

He looks at his brother; today’s bruises are turning purple-blue-red around his right eye and cheekbone. There’s still an older almost faded bruise from their last hunt on his jaw, butterfly bandages on his temple and cheekbone, but Dean doesn’t seem to even notice. Dean’s watching him so closely, the confused look being slowly replaced by the familiar concern. Sam blinks and tears his eyes away. 

“I know, Dean,” he says quietly. 

“Know what?” Confusion and exasperation back again. 

“ _I know about you and him!_ You and Paul Ferguson!” he spits the words out like the rousing chorus of an exorcism, raising his hand to his mouth afterwards, touching his lips as if he can’t quite believe what they’ve just uttered. 

Dean’s blinking, dazed and dumbfounded, like he’s just been floored by another semi-truck linebacker. His tongue comes out, wets his lips. “What?” he says, and his voice is faint, a barely audible croak. 

Sam swallows, grips tighter to the work surface, grateful for the solid wood (well sort of) behind his back. 

“The other night, I came back early, and I saw you – you and _him_. In here.” 

Sam didn’t think it was possible, but Dean’s eyes widen even further. He gulps, struggles on the couch, trying to get to his feet, as if being on his feet is going to make this hellish conversation any easier. He shifts one leg, winces, eyes fluttering shut momentarily, the pain ghosting across his face. 

“No, don’t get up!” Sam darts forward, holding out a hand, as if to stop his brother. “Don’t put weight on your ankle.” 

Dean bows his head, huffs out a cracked helpless sort of a laugh. “I – I thought you were out.” 

“I came back early.” 

Dean says nothing, mouth twisting into a wry, sardonic shape. He looks away from Sam, lips pressed together, gaze fixed on his bandaged ankle. 

“You have to stop doing it, Dean,” he says, and he’s impressed by how firm his voice sounds, how sure. “It’s _wrong_ , he’s, like, forty, and he’s married! You’re just, like, like his mistress!” 

“It's not like that.” 

“Oh? Yeah? How is it then? Does he promise you shit? Is he gonna leave his wife and be with you forever? What about Dad? What about hunting? You can’t do that!” 

“I know! I know that, Sam! Jesus!” Dean yanks his head back, eyes flashing, anger suddenly flaring up. “And I don’t even – God, man, you know me. I don’t want anything serious. You and Dad, hunting, this is what I want! You _know_ that. This thing with him, it’s not, it ain’t important. It’s just--” he breaks off, shrugs awkwardly, raising a thoughtless hand to his lips as if he’s tracing something, maybe a memory, a kiss, the place Paul Ferguson last touched him. 

Sam’s stomach lurches, he makes a noise in the back of his throat, his eyes glazing over, getting hot and prickly and stupidly, _stupidly_ wet. He bows his head, stares down at the greasy linoleum, the awful orange and beige faded pattern, the ridges and grooves of grease where the furniture has been moved. God, he _hates_ this place, hates it so, so much, hates this trailer and this town and his family, hates himself and his horrible depressing life. 

“Sam,” he hears Dean say. “Sammy, c’mere.” 

Dean’s voice is soft, non-recriminatory, and Sam really wants to cry now. His life is shit and his Dad is wherever the fuck he is right now, but Dean. Dean has always been there for him, Dean has never let him down. Except for now. 

“Sammy," Dean says again, “please – just - c’mere,” and this time his voice is gentler, almost pleading. 

He pushes himself off the worktop and walks slowly towards Dean. His head is bent, eyes fixed on the floor, on the rug that designates the “den” area of the room: the TV and horrible couch and battered coffee table, the rug’s fibers so worn they’re like webbing, frayed away to practically nothing. Dean shifts on the couch, the squeak of the vinyl reminding him with a wrench of the Impala’s back seat, of the days when he was still young enough to share that space with Dean.

“Hey, look at me,” says Dean quietly. 

Sam blinks and raises his head, hopes that Dean won’t see the stupid, hot tears fringing his lashes, burning at the back of his eye sockets. Dean reaches out and snags a hand in Sam’s jeans, tugs him closer. “Sit down,” he says. 

Sam perches gingerly on the edge of the couch, his back and ass against Dean’s thigh, his brother’s hand still snagged in one belt loop. Dean’s body feels like it’s scalding him, so hot and burning, like leaning against a radiator. Dean’s propped up against one of the arms of the couch, the vinyl there is flaky, revealing a yellow spongy texture underneath, flecks of it getting stuck to his clothes, to his worn gray sweatshirt. 

“Sam, listen. I’ll – next time he calls me or whatever, then I’ll tell him no, okay? I’ll tell him it’s over.” 

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “Yeah, you should do that.” 

Dean chuckles under his breath, a weary, resigned sort of a sound. “Man, never knew you would be so freakin’ judgmental.” 

Sam snaps his head around, stares at him. “This isn’t me being judgmental, Dean! This is – this is – he’s just some creepy old guy and he’s taking advantage of you! He’s abusing his position! And you’re so much better than that.” 

Dean gives him a long, incredulous sort of look. “I’m better than that?” 

Sam blushes, chews his lip. He thinks about arguing the point, about calling Dean a jerk and rolling his eyes, acting up his bratty little brother role, getting them back to the way they’re supposed to be with each other, but in the end he decides to go with the truth. “Yeah, yeah, you are.” 

Dean looks at him for what feels like a long time, his eyes wide, like he’s in shock. Maybe he’s still high on some of the painkillers ‘cause Sam can see now that his pupils are dilated, the black big and hazy, green all but vanished into faint circles. He twists his fingers in Sam’s belt loop, digging them in against Sam’s hip like he’s giving one of those awesome pressure massages. 

“Hey, turn around, c’mere,” he murmurs. 

Sam does it without thinking, twists so his chest is against Dean’s side, Dean’s arm sort of curled around his back, fingers bunched into his hip. He lets his head fall to the crook of Dean’s neck, careful not to brush against his brother’s injured side, feeling suddenly really fucking tired. He has no idea what time it is, but it’s probably well after midnight. 

They sit like that for a while, maybe a minute, maybe two. Dean’s neck smells good, he decides. Sharp undercurrent of salty, tangy sweat that’s too familiar to be really unpleasant to him. The skin is warm under his cheek and he can feel his brother’s chest rise and fall as he breathes in and out. 

Dean’s being quiet, breathing softly and not moving, except for the hand curled around Sam’s hip, absently patting him now and again. It’s been a long while since Dean held him like this, and it’s both foreign and strange and overwhelmingly soothing, making him nostalgic for those times when he was really young and he’d curl into Dean and let Dean pet him and hold him and stroke his hair. 

He turns his head slightly, dimly aware at the back of his mind that his mouth is open against Dean’s skin, that his lips are parted and he can feel the throb-throb-throb of Dean’s pulse against his top lip, that he’s making Dean’s collar damp, that he’s practically _drooling_ on his brother. But Dean doesn’t seem to mind, and Sam’s so tired and it’s just – it’s nice, it’s comforting, and Dean’s where he should be. Dean’s going to end things with that pervert and Dad will come back soon. They’ll be able to leave this horrible little town and this horrible dirty trailer and Dean will get far, far away from that creepy bastard. 

He sighs out, fluttering his eyes closed. Dean’s skin tastes good too, sort of salty, musky, he can almost feel the taste of it in his mouth. He opens his mouth, gently licks at his brother’s neck. 

Dean goes instantly, utterly still. 

Sam freezes, releases his hold on Dean’s sweatshirt, jerks his head back, mouth away from Dean’s skin. He stares at the side of Dean’s face, the light stubble and mottled bruises, the jagged butterfly bandage. 

He sees his brother swallow, watches the ripple of his throat, his Adam’s apple come up and down. “Sam, did you just – did you just lick my neck?” 

Sam makes a noise, a quiet, pleading, desperate noise. He did. He did just lick his brother’s neck. That’s not. It’s not normal. 

“Sammy?” Dean says. 

Dean turns his head, stares at him. Sam can’t escape from that look; Dean’s looking right at him, _into_ him. His expression is curious, confused, like he’s trying to fathom something out. 

“Sam,” he repeats. 

“I don’t – I didn’t mean it!” he blurts out eventually. His face is burning, skin feeling as hot as the Impala on a hot day. “It was an accident,” he pleads. 

Dean’s still watching him, still with that same fathoming look. Sam makes a noise and stumbles to his feet. 

“No, you ain’t leaving.” 

He flails, falls back as he feels Dean’s strong hand tangle in his pants, tugging him backwards so he half-sprawls over his brother. Dean winces, nudges him, and Sam suddenly remembers his brother’s injuries. He makes to move away again but Dean’s left hand is gripping his bicep now, he’s caught fast. 

Dean’s right hand is entangled in Sam’s pants leg, and Sam watches in horrified slow motion as Dean disentangles his fingers from the fabric and slowly slides his hand up Sam’s thigh, towards his crotch. He gasps out loud, shudders violently when Dean’s fingers brush against his balls, his brother’s big capable hand moving to cup Sam’s erection. 

“Dean, God – no, you can’t!” he protests weakly, trying to grab at Dean’s hand, pry his fingers apart. But it’s just as useless as when they were younger, when he was trying to pry one of his army men out of his big brother’s hand, jumping up and down and crying and pleading: _“Dean give it me! Dean, stop being so meannnn! Deeeeean!”_

“No, Sammy, I don’t think so,” says Dean, and it’s amazing how clear he sounds. How firm and big-brotherly and Dean-ish. 

“Dean,” he begs, “please, don’t.” 

“Don’t what? Don’t touch you? I think you want me to touch you. I can make it good for you, Sam. I can make you feel good. Hey, look at me.” 

Sam doesn’t protest when Dean raises his other hand, gently cups the side of Sam’s face, forcefully turning his head so their eyes meet. 

Dean’s eyes are soft, complicit, Sam thinks, like he gets it, he understands. And his hand feels good against Sam’s face, warm and big and comforting. All of Dean feels good. He can feel Dean’s thumb against his lips, and he parts them slightly, tongue coming out to flick against the pad of his brother’s thumb. 

Dean flinches, a gasped intake of breath, his eyes flickering with shock. His expression darkens, getting more intense, and Sam feels suddenly smug, knowing that he can still shock his big brother. He places one of his hands over Dean’s, gently tugging it away from his face, entwining their fingers together as he turns Dean’s hand around and moves it back to his mouth. 

He kisses the back of Dean’s hand. There’s a scar there from the first time they went hunting together, not from a supernatural creature, but from a badger. It’d been a family joke for years. The creature had attacked them when they’d crawled too close to its set, a Mama Badger getting wild and feral when she thought someone was threatening her cubs. Dean’d gotten clawed all up his arm and hand, and Dad’d been pissed, sent them back to the car to wait while he finished off the wood spirit. Sam’d tended his brother’s badger wounds in the car, by the dim interior light, first aid kit laid out over the backseat, sniggering while Dean cursed and threatened to give him a Chinese burn if he didn’t fucking shut up already ‘cause it hurt like a bitch and it wasn’t goddamn funny. 

He kisses along the tendons on the back of Dean’s hand, then along his long clever fingers, gently running his tongue over the knuckles and grooves and the badger scar. He’s always liked Dean’s hands, always liked to watch Dean use his hands: handling a weapon or stitching up Dad, repairing the motorcycle or catching a football, even slicing up bread for toast. Admittedly he has a really ham-fisted way of holding his pen, but Dean’s hands work so easily, so deftly. Effortless, he thinks to himself. 

He hears Dean’s intake of breath, the catch in his throat as Sam sucks his brother’s index finger into his mouth. Dean’s cheeks are flushed, his color high and pupils dilated, like he’s running a fever. He swallows, murmurs Sam’s name. 

Sam glances down at his brother’s crotch, sees the unmistakable bulge in his sweatpants. He smiles around Dean’s finger, sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks around the digit and flicking his tongue against the pad of Dean’s finger. He feels powerful. He’s just given his brother a hard-on. Dean’s turned-on; Dean’s aroused because of _him._ He’s the one in charge here. 

He reaches down, traces the stiff thick line of Dean’s cock with his fingertips, sees Dean’s shiver, the ripple in his muscles through his thin sweatshirt. Paul Ferguson put a hand on Dean’s face like he owned him, he touched Dean’s dick and jerked him off like he had a right to it, but now Sam is the one touching Dean. He’s the one with Dean’s finger in his mouth and his hand tracing Dean’s erection. 

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean groans. 

He pulls his finger out of Sam’s mouth with a squelchy popping sound and cups Sam’s face again, leaning in to press his nose into Sam’s cheek, inhale Sam’s skin. His breath is warm and clammy against Sam’s face and it makes Sam’s entire body seize up, his cock get even harder. 

“Dean…” he whispers. 

Dean makes a weird sort of noise, breathing heavily against Sam’s face, and then his fingers, his slicked, slippery fingers, are fumbling with Sam’s fly, jerky, titillating brushes against Sam’s desperate cock, and then it’s free, slapping up against his belly. 

“Christ, Sam,” Dean says, and there’s something in Dean’s voice that makes Sam want to curl up and die happy. Dean sounds… impressed. Their eyes meet and Dean arcs one eyebrow, all cool-ass big brother, sardonic and lame. Sam grins at him, he’s too turned on to think properly, to roll his eyes as he would normally, too happy and blissed-out. 

Dean wraps his fingers around Sam’s cock like he’s making a fist, flicks his slimy spit-slicked index finger over the head. Sam flinches like he’s been shot, the sensation is overwhelming, and he reels for a moment, regaining his balance. He clutches his brother’s sweatshirt, curls his fingers around Dean’s biceps, teeth sinking into his lower lip and eyes fluttering closed. 

Dean snorts, like he’s amused, and Sam snaps his eyes open, suddenly self-conscious, aware of the ridiculous picture he must make. But Dean doesn’t look like he thinks Sam’s ridiculous, Dean’s watching him intently, as if Sam’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever laid eyes on. 

Dean’s fingers are nothing like Ali’s. There’s nothing clumsy or fumbled or unsure in the way Dean jacks his cock, the slow, languid slide of his fingers and flick of his thumb over Sam’s slit, the decadent way he lifts his fingers to his lips to coat them with spit when he needs more slick. 

Sam watches the blood-red head of his cock disappear and reappear under his brother’s clever hand, feeling like he’s about to burst. Every pore in his body is tingling, and he’s aware of everything: the hairs on his legs standing up, the prickle of his scalp, the thump-thump-thump of his pulse in his wrists. He’s falling apart, his skin is about to peel off, flake away like the vinyl on this awful couch, leave him bare and helpless and shaking. 

“Dean, Dean,” he whimpers, fingers bunching and tearing at Dean’s shirt. 

“Sam,” Dean says. “It’s okay, Sam. You can let go.” 

That’s enough, he’s finished. Dean’s blessing pushes him over the edge, sends him clutching and gasping for breath, cock pumping painfully as Dean works it, drains every last drop from him. 

He collapses against his brother’s chest, face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck, the same spot he inadvertently licked only a couple of minutes earlier. It feels like another era. 

His eyes are squeezed closed and he’s aware of Dean doing something with his hands, wiping them off somewhere, on their pants, shirts, it doesn’t matter. Then Dean’s arms come around him, Dean’s palms on his shoulder blades, pulling him into a hug, one hand smoothing up and down his back, comforting and knowing. 

“It’s alright,” Dean says. “Just me and you, man. Just us. Hey, Sammy.” 

He slides one hand up Sam’s back, past his neck to cradle the back of his head, fingers twining in Sam’s hair, pulling gently. 

Obediently, Sam looks up, sees Dean regarding him with a thoughtful, knowing expression. Dean’s mouth crooks gently. “Never thought you’d have it in you, dude. Though I shoulda known, heard you beat off often enough.” 

Sam blushes, scowls. “Dean!” 

Dean smirks, certain and unrepentant, and Sam wants nothing more than to reach out and trace that smirk with his fingertips, etch it onto his touch memory as well as his visual one. Instead he swallows, gestures awkwardly towards Dean’s tented pants. 

“Do you need me to help you out?” 

Help out. It’s the same phrase Ali used – _sometimes guys help each other out_ – it’s what he and Ali have been doing. Is that what he and Dean are doing? It feels a lot more momentous than that, then again, weirdly, it doesn’t feel that momentous at all. He’s not as freaked out as he should be. Dean just jerked him off. His brother touched his penis. There are laws against that. Laws they've just broken. 

He knows he could reason all that away, tell himself how they don’t live within the law anyway. They’re modern-day outlaws, or at least that’s how Dean likes to see it: saving people, hunting things, killing evil, making the world a safer and better place. Normal rules don’t apply to them. They’re above normal. 

But weirdly, he doesn’t need to do that. He can’t be bothered to do that. This is just him and Dean – it’s just them – and it’s just another way they’ve found of fitting together, of being brothers. 

He watches Dean slide his hand into his own pants and bring out his cock. He’s seen his brother’s cock before, he’s even glimpsed it erect before, but he’s never seen it this close up. It looks like his own dick, and he feels a sudden absurd urge to get his own out again and compare them, to catalogue the similarities and differences like a bio project. But his own dick is getting soft, and the comparison would not do him any favors right now, not when Dean’s looking like he’s about to blow his wad any second. 

Dean’s quick and efficient, barely making a noise, just biting his lip and shuddering when he comes into his own fist. Sam’s not surprised; Dean’s had years of having to get off as quickly and quietly as possible, and he’s gotten good at it, though it’s still messy. They’ve gotten jizz everywhere, on each other’s shirts and pants and shorts, on the couch, though that couch has probably had years of bodily fluids worked into it. 

He gets up. “Just gonna get a towel,” he says. 

Dean nods, and Sam can feel his gaze on his back as he takes the few steps to the bathroom. He grabs the grubby, damp hand towel from the rail and tosses it on Dean’s lap, watching his brother clean up himself and then the couch. He holds out the towel when he’s done and Sam takes it, heads back into the bathroom. 

He throws the towel in the laundry and climbs into the shower. His own clothes are good for nothing either so he adds them to the substantial pile of laundry. He showers hurriedly, hands not lingering anywhere, and anyway, he doesn’t feel the urge. He feels sated in a way he hasn’t for a long time, that urgent, prickly feeling leaving him for the first time in what feels like weeks. It makes him want to laugh out loud when he thinks that all it took was some incestuous fumbling. The thought makes him feel very grown up and superior. He’s done something must people have never even thought about. 

He comes out the bathroom, sees that Dean has turned the TV on. He heads towards his brother, his heartbeat starting to quicken as he takes in the long sprawl of his brother’s body, his naked chest (Dean has removed the disgusting sweatshirt) and the trail of hair running down from his belly button to disappear under the waistband of his sweats. 

“Dean,” he says, impressed by how firm and clear his voice sounds. 

Dean starts, angles his head to look up at him. His eyes look stupidly huge from this distance, the lashes very long, his freckles prominent against his pale face. He looks younger, vulnerable, like Bambi, Sam thinks, feeling a little hysterical. 

“You, uh, you want anything, man? You want me to get you anything?” 

Dean eyes him for a moment too long; his mouth quirking in a way that makes Sam let loose an undignified sort of snigger, a snatch of an embarrassed, conspiratorial laugh. Dean’s eyebrows hike up and he grins, big and wide and the expression lighting up his entire face. 

“A change of clothes would be good, man. These are kinda crusty.” 

Okay, gross. He turns his back before Dean can see the blush staining his cheeks, and he heads into the bedroom to get his brother some more clothes. 

He goes to bed after he’s gotten Dean clean clothes and a soda. Dean's not supposed to mix beer with the meds, and Sam's proud of himself for resisting his brother's urgent plea for a beer. 

He lies in bed and thinks that he’s never going to sleep. He feels buzzed, his body thrumming and stomach doing lurching uncomfortable things. He does though, drifting off, still listening to the sound of the TV filtering through the thin walls. 

When he wakes it’s still dark and Dean’s lying beside him on his back. He twists onto his side and stares at Dean’s profile. 

Subjectively, he knows that Dean’s good-looking, hell, Dean knows it. Dean plays on his looks shamelessly sometimes, though at other times he looks uncomfortable about it, mouth going thin and unhappy if someone comments on it, someone other than a cute chick. But Sam's never personally found Dean good-looking, he's never felt it himself. Of course he hasn't, Dean is just Dean, he's his big brother. Now, though? Are things different now? Does he think Dean’s good-looking now? 

He frowns self-consciously to himself and stares at his brother. He’s getting hard, he can feel it, his cock starting to thicken and press down nicely against the mattress. Is this because he finds Dean attractive? 

His body wants to touch Dean, it wants him to shift closer and curl up against Dean’s own warm body. But does that mean he finds Dean attractive? He has no idea. He knows he wants to get closer to Dean, his thickening cock urging him to get close enough to rub his erection up against the groove of Dean's hip. Dean wouldn't even have to wake up, he could rub himself against his brother until he shot his wad. He's pretty sure it wouldn't take long. 

The thought makes him snigger, and he clamps a hand over his mouth, watches Dean twitch in his sleep, his eyes flutter open. Dean’s always been a light sleeper. 

“Sam?” he slurs sleepily. 

“Hey,” Sam breathes. “Go back to sleep, Dean.” 

He’s pretty impressed with himself when Dean obeys, closes his eyes, and falls asleep again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam and Ali are having lunch in the cafeteria when Brad Collins, first choice wide receiver, yanks out the chair beside Ali and straddles it. 

“You Sam?” 

Sam raises his head from his sandwich and eyes the guy over the table, unimpressed. “Yeah, I’m Sam,” he drawls. 

“Tell your brother ‘bout the party at Rickman’s place, Friday night. He ain’t been around to know about it.” 

“Fiiine,” Sam says slowly, drawing the word out and staring at Brad’s bullish jerk-ass face. He can feel Ali’s eyes on him, flitting between him and Brad, wide and slightly terrified. Ali is prime fodder for douchebags like this. 

The guy hesitates, stares at Sam like he's a tricky math problem, the square root of nine perhaps, the dumbass. 

“You can come too. And your geek friend.” 

He slaps one hand down hard on Ali’s shoulder as he gets back to his feet, making Ali splutter and choke and bend over in his seat. 

“Here,” Sam says, pushing his bottle of water across the table towards his friend. 

“Well, that was weird,” Ali says when he’s finally recovered. 

“Huh?” 

“People like him never interact with people like us, Sam.” 

“Right.” Sam rolls his eyes. He sometimes forgets that every single high school is the same, that the same hierarchies and cliques and groups exist in every single school in this country, that the social system never changes. After the number of schools he’s been to, he should’ve given up expecting something different by now. 

“It must be because of Dean,” Ali continues, “that he invited us, I mean.” 

Well, duh, Sam thinks. He’s shocked that Brad Collins even knows his name. Dean must really talk about him a lot. The thought makes him feel warm, and he hides a smile, lowering his head to his lunch. 

Dean’s ankle and ribs are better, though he’s still not back at school. He’s attended practice as a spectator, met with the Coach and the PT guy and used the weight room under supervision. He’s working out every night too, stripped down to his boxer shorts and socks (the two of them have learned never to go barefoot in the trailer), on the floor in front of the TV: strength exercises for his ankle, then push-ups and crunches, stretches and lunges, as much as he can do with his still healing bruises and injuries. It’s distracting and there’s a part of him which suspects Dean’s doing it on purpose, that Dean’s trying to provoke him. Into what he’s not entirely sure, though a hot dark place of him hopes that it’s a repeat of what they did the other night. 

His belly clenches up and he drops the uneaten half of his sandwich onto his plate. 

He swallows, takes a sip of water. “C’mon, let’s go,” he says. 

In Bio lab, Ali sits a little too close, their knees brushing occasionally. Sam’s only half aware of it, though he can feel Ali’s eyes creeping his way every time his attention isn’t entirely fixed on what Mr. Redmond’s saying about the different structures of covalent bonds. He and Ali haven’t done anything since Dean got hurt. 

He curls his fingers around his pencil, his mind drifting back to his brother, thinking over their conversation last night. He’d stayed late for Chess Club, though he was distracted the whole time, worrying about Dean. Ali gave him a ride home, dropping hints about Sam coming over so they could do their homework together, the glint in his eyes and the color in his cheeks betraying his real motivations. 

When Sam got home Dean was on the phone. 

“Dad?” he mouthed, raising his eyebrows in a questioning arc. 

Dean shook his head, and got up to take the phone into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Sam gazed at the closed door in concern; they were only allowed to use the cell phone to call Dad, the call charges were too high for it to be used for anything else. 

He padded across the floor and stood beside the closed bedroom door, listening hard. 

_“No, I can’t see you. I told you we’re not doing this anymore. It’s finished. I’m leaving town.”_

_“…Yeah, my Dad’s coming back… yeah… I told you that… Christ….”_

Sam went still, heart racing. Paul Ferguson, it had to be Paul Ferguson. Dean was finishing things with Paul Ferguson. He crept away and emptied his books onto the kitchen table, a smile spreading unchecked across his face. 

Dean came out of the bedroom with an unreadable look on his face, phone cradled in his hand. “You were listening, weren’t you?” 

Sam didn’t bother to deny it. “Yeah. So you broke up with him?” 

“Broke up with him? Jesus, we were never together – it wasn’t like that,” Dean sighed, sounding exasperated. “But yeah, it’s over.” 

“Good. That’s good, Dean.” 

Dean took the other seat, placed the phone back on the kitchen table where it usually lived. “He didn’t like it. He’s really pissed, keeps calling me, he says he misses me.” 

“Tough.”

Dean laughed, shook his head, giving Sam this fond, incredulous sort of smile. “Jesus, you’re a tough little bitch, aintcha, Sammy?” 

Sam frowned at him. “This is serious, Dean. He’s bad news. He’s a creep, you can do way better. I’m just – I’m just pleased that you’ve finished it.” 

He lowered his head, going back to his studying, feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze against his bent head. 

“What?” he said eventually, raising his head again and giving his brother a pissy look. “Why are you watching me like that?” 

Dean licked his lips, regarding him for a long moment, before he got up from the chair, saying, “Nothing, s’nothing, man. Do you homework. I’m gonna make dinner.” 

He’s distracted for the rest of school, thinking about Dean and Paul Ferguson and that Dean had actually ended it, his brother had done what he’d wanted, it seems remarkable to him. He has to force himself to concentrate in class, to respond to Ali’s endless blabbering about the party. 

“Do you really think he meant I should go? Do you really think I should go, Sam?” 

“You gotta go, dude. Gotta give me and Dean a lift, he can’t ride the bike yet.” 

That’s not strictly true, Dean has been riding the motorcycle for the last couple of days (though he’s not supposed to). But this way, with Ali as their designated driver, Sam can be sure his brother’s not going to end up drunk and in charge of a motorcycle or dead in a ditch. 

“Oh right, yeah course,” Ali nods, expression brightening some, relieved. “So we all go together? I’ll swing by and pick you guys up? Shit, what should I wear? What are you gonna wear?” 

He drops Sam at the top of the park entrance, waving enthusiastically and saying that he’ll see him later, he’ll be back in a few hours. Sam nods distractedly and trudges down the lane into the trailer park. He can feel his heart start to quicken, his pulse getting faster, and he tells himself to get a grip. He’s been feeling like this every night after school, nervous and wired, trying to tell himself that it’s only Dean, it’s only his brother, the most familiar and mundane person in his world. But things have been weird between the two of them, sort of careful and heavy. It’s hard to describe and even harder to put to the back of his mind and forget about. 

Dean’s not in when Sam gets back. He sits at the kitchen table and makes a start on his homework and waits for his brother to get back. 

Dean comes in a couple of hours later, swearing loudly and slamming the door so hard that the whole place rattles. 

“Motherfucking asshole!” Dean rages. “Jesus, I hate the fucker, I hate him so fuckin’ much, man. I swear, Sam, the day we leave this shithole I’m gonna fuckin’ slash his tires, put rotten fish in his exhaust pipe and – and-–“ he hesitates, grappling for another heinous thing to do to fucking Mason. 

“Burn his porn stash?” Sam suggests. They’ve both seen Mason’s porn stash, two milk crates full of it, hidden badly under an old crochet blanket at the back of his cramped, rank-smelling manager’s office. 

“Fuck, yeah!” exclaims Dean. “I’ll set fire to the lot of it. S’all it’s good for anyway.” He grins, gleeful and evil, and sinks down into the other chair at the table, a brief moue of pain flittering over his face and making the smile dim a little. 

“You still hurting?” Sam asks. “Have you taken your meds?” 

Dean grimaces, smile now completely gone. “Shut up, yes I have.” 

“Good,” Sam says. “Oh, and by the way, we got invited to a party tonight. Brad Collins came up to me at lunch and told me to tell you. He also invited me and Ali. I’ve no idea why, I guess we’re, like, cool by association.” 

“Ha, you bet your ass!” Dean grins. “I knew some day my awesome would rub off on you.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, “Shut up.” 

Dean heads out to get some pizza for dinner, taking the motorcycle, and Sam hurries to finish his homework. Dean comes back twenty minutes later with a couple of steaming meat feasts and Ali trailing behind him. 

Ali’s looking nervous, fidgeting when he enters the trailer behind Dean. He’s gotten dressed up, wearing a dress shirt and some pressed jeans and it makes Sam want to shake his head, tell him: _no, no, no_ , because the kid looks like he’s about to head out to watch a string quartet, not go to a high school party. He doesn’t say anything though and Dean invites Ali to tuck in, help himself to pizza. 

Dean finishes up quickly and heads into the bathroom to take a shower. Ali helps Sam clear up the pizza boxes, jabbering on about the problem set they’d been given for Algebra, wanting to compare answers and screwing up his face in confusion when Sam tells him a different answer to number six to his own. 

Sam throws his half-finished homework and the rest of his school books into his bag and takes a seat on the couch, Ali beside him, the TV on. He can hear the shower going, faint snatches of Dean singing loudly over the water, though he can’t make out the song. 

“You think it’ll be full of, like, seniors this party?” Ali asks, his voice betraying his nerves. “Do you think we’ll be the only sophomores there?” 

Sam shrugs; he hasn’t given it much thought. “I guess.” 

Ali nods, licks his lips. “Sweet.” It’s not convincing. 

The bathroom door shudders open, and both of them turn their heads to see Dean come sauntering out, tiny sized towel wrapped around his waist, flip-flops on his feet, and his torso completely bare, shining and wet, water droplets running down his chest and back from his wet hair. Sam watches the play of the muscles in his brother’s back as he strolls towards the refrigerator, the dip and sway of his hips, the firmness of his ass in the small towel and the jut and thrust of his shoulder blades. 

Dean opens the refrigerator and cocks his head at them, asking, “You two want beers?” 

Sam flicks his gaze away from his brother towards Ali who’s blinking and staring at Dean with wide glazed eyes, his face a furious red color. Sam can practically see the drool on his friend’s lips. 

“Yeah, that would be good,” Sam says at last and he’s shocked by how steady his voice sounds out loud. 

Dean nods, and flashes them one of his best grins, wide and wicked and utterly charming. He gathers up the long-necks in one hand, glass chinking together as he strolls towards them. Sam gazes at his brother, at the perfect muscle definition in his stomach and chest, his six pack abs and strong flat pectorals gleaming with droplets of water, his wet eyelashes and flattened hair making him look younger, fresher, the yellow-purple bruises on the left side of his ribcage, that old harpy scar twisting over his right hip, just visible over his knotted towel. Next to him on the couch, Ali has gone completely still, his breathing jagged and high, and Sam wonders if Dean knows what he’s doing to poor Ali. He feels a crazy hysterical laugh bubble up from his belly, remembering Ali’s weak protest from the other week - _I’m not gay, Sam_ – and he stifles back the snort with a lot of effort. 

Dean catches his eye and smirks, dropping the beers into each of their laps with a knowing quirk of his eyebrow. Of course Dean knows exactly what he’s doing. Jerk. 

Dean stalks off towards the bedroom and Sam twists the cap off his beer, watches Ali imitate him. He takes a couple of swigs; it’s pretty foul, and he doesn’t like the taste, but he needs the distraction, something to stop his heart from beating so stupidly fast and his skin from prickling. 

“I guess I’d better get ready too,” he says after a couple more pulls. 

“Okay, man,” says Ali, and his voice is shaky, too high. 

He has to jerk off in the shower. He knows that if he doesn’t take the edge off it now, then he’ll be jittery all night. He squeezes his eyes tight shut and works his fist in spasmodic, automatic jerks, not lingering, trying desperately not to think about his brother, about his brother’s gleaming, muscled chest, about the curve of his ass in the tiny towel, about the jut of his shoulder blades or the sway of his hips when he walks. He’s purposely rough with himself, yanking on his cock and squeezing his balls; he doesn’t deserve to enjoy this, not when he’s so screwed in the head. 

He bites his lip hard when he comes, though it’s not hard enough to prevent the breathy gasp from escaping his lips, and he hopes valiantly that neither Ali nor Dean overheard. He’s quickly soaping up his hair and getting ready to wash it off when the door rattles, Dean calling out, “Sam! Open up!” 

Sam curses, slips a little, bangs his elbow against the wall, and curses again. He hates his brother. 

“Sam!” Dean calls again. “I need to fix my hair, you know the only mirror’s in there.” 

Jesus, his brother’s such a freaking peacock. He’d totally make Dean wait, only he knows that Dean is irritating enough to pick the lock and come on in anyway. At least this bathroom’s so damn tiny he doesn’t have to actually get out the shower to unlock the door. He thrusts his arm out past the shower curtain and reaches to flick the lock. 

“It’s open!” he calls. 

The door swings open and Dean comes wafting in, closing the door behind him and shuffling towards the sink. 

“Jesus, man, how long have you been in here? S’like a freakin’ sauna.” 

Whatever, like Dean can talk. He spends ages in the shower sometimes, and it’s only like a freaking sauna because the window’s jammed, the ventilation’s for shit and oh yes, Dean was in here before him. Christ. 

He hears the squeak of Dean wiping the fogged-up mirror clean, then his brother starts to whistle again as he rubs product into his hair. 

“Hey, whatcha doing in there anyway, man? You spankin’ the monkey?” 

“Fuck off!” 

“Oh, man, you are, you _so_ are!” 

“Shut up, Dean!”

He twists off the faucet, and reaches for the towel on the rack. Again, he barely needs to stretch to snatch it up in the cramped space. He carefully knots it around his waist and slides the shower curtain open. Dean’s in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection as he works product into his hair, trying to spike it up into his normal style. Sam watches his brother’s back, sees him freeze up when he realizes Sam’s there. He watches Dean raise his eyes to the mirror, watches the ripple of his brother’s throat as his eyes take in Sam’s reflection, drinking in all of him, every inch of Sam’s naked, wet body. Slowly Dean looks up again, his tongue coming out to wet his lips as their eyes meet in the mirror, the answering bolt of recognition and desire bursting deep in Sam’s chest, making his stomach clench and knees tremble. He forces himself to look away, holds onto the wall to steady himself and carefully steps out the tub. 

He has to edge around Dean to get out the bathroom, so aware of how close they are in the cramped space, how warm Dean’s body still feels mere inches from his own, how warm and wet and hot his own body feels. He escapes to the bedroom and sinks to the edge of the bed. When he looks down at his hands in his lap, he realizes that he’s trembling. 

 

****************************

 

Dean ditches them as soon as they get to the party. Sam’s disappointed, though he shouldn’t be. Dean’s happy to acknowledge him and talk about him and hang out with him when it’s just the two of them, but when there are other kids around, other _cooler_ kids, Dean immediately goes for the upgrade. He knows that a lot of it is simple self-preservation. It’s weird for brothers of their ages to hang out so much, to be as close as they are, and Sam knows that many of the guys on the team already think Dean’s strange for talking about his kid brother so often or for sitting with him at lunch or hanging with him after school. And hell, it’s not like Sam doesn’t have his own friends to hang out with, his own friends who like the same stuff he does and don’t mock him for wanting to hand his homework in on time or get good grades. 

Ali sticks to him like a limpet as they make their way through the throng of loud, beered-up seniors. 

“I think we are the only lower classmen here,” Ali whispers as they gain the kitchen. He sounds partly awed and partly terrified, and Sam flicks him a look, feeling a sudden surge of affection and protectiveness for him. He wonders if that’s how Dean feels when he looks at him. 

They get to the keg and get each other a couple of beers. No one stops them, or says anything, and Sam guesses that most of the people here are already too wasted to care. 

“Hey, Jamie, hey!” Ali calls out, and a kid with his back to them turns around and waves back. “He used to be in the gaming club,” Ali explains and Sam nods sagely. He’s heard all about the saga of the gaming club from Ali. It got closed down because a couple of parents thought they were worshipping Satan or something equally ridiculous. 

Ali introduces them and Sam shakes hands with Jamie. He’s a junior, but he seems cool, immediately launching into a debate with them about some new X-Men storyline. Sam’s only read a few issues so he can’t really join in. There’s no money in the Winchester family for luxuries like comics and the only issues of any comics he’s managed to read over the years he’s either picked up from libraries, had lent to him by previous geeky friends, or Dean’s shoplifted for him. 

Sam drinks his beer fast. It’s weird, but the more he drinks of it, the easier it seems to go down. There’s probably something scientific in that, he thinks, as he offers to go get them a few more. Ali and Jamie both nod, barely looking up from their breathless, excitable discussion, so Sam weaves his way back to the kitchen. He looks around for Dean as he goes, but he doesn’t spot him anywhere and he wonders if Dean’s hooked up with someone, if one of those cheerleaders who’ve had their eyes on him since he joined the team has gotten her hooks into him and dragged him off to a deserted bedroom. He gets three more paper cups of beer, and turns to head back outside. 

“Here you go, more drinks.” 

Ali pauses mid sentence and frowns. “I don’t think I should, Sam. I’m the designated driver, remember?” 

Sam snorts, says, “Dude, c’mon, you’ve had, like, one beer, that’s not gonna put you over the limit.” 

“You have mine,” says Ali with this magnanimous, superior sort of a look that makes Sam want to roll his eyes, hard. 

“Whatever,” he mutters. He drinks both the beers, listening half-heartedly to Ali and Jamie’s conversation, their words not making much sense to him. Sure he’s a geek, but he doesn’t get half of their references. He’s never even owned a videogame, the only videogames he’s ever played are the ones in arcades, him and Dean seeing how long they can last at House of the Dead or Area 51 on just a couple of quarters. He’s drunken one the beers and most of the other before he even realizes it and mutters something incoherent to Ali and Jamie about getting another then pushes himself off the wall and heads off back to the kitchen. 

He’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, well, perhaps a little past buzzed, his vision swimming as he pushes his way back into the house. It seems more crowded than ever and he wonders how much time has passed and where exactly Dean has gotten to. 

The keg is finished but there are plastic half gallon bottles of cheap cider on the table, standing in spilt pools of beer and juice and more cider. He shrugs and refills both cups with the cider; it can’t taste any worse than the beer. 

It’s actually better tasting than the beer, he decides as he wanders aimlessly around the first floor of the house, kinda sweet and tangy, like beer with more sugar in it. He stops in the living room to admire the furnishings, well, what he can see of them under drunken high school kids, pizza boxes, empty cups, beer cans and nuts. The house is fucking huge; he’s counted at least seven rooms on the first floor alone, plus the huge-ass yard and pool. It’s decorated in that ostentatious style so beloved of folk in this town, with everything matching and overdone, like it’s trying too hard. He doesn’t know whose house this is, but he hates that person on principle. If he was ever lucky enough to live in an amazing house like this then the last fucking thing he’d do is host a party for a bunch of lazy high school assholes. 

He finds a section of wall to lean back against, (all the couches are taken by couples groping each other) and daydreams about that other life,– the life he sometimes imagines that they could’ve had, the one where Mom didn’t die and Dad didn’t get all crazy and obsessed. The one where they know nothing of the supernatural and they live an ordinary suburban lifestyle in a place like this. In that life Dad could’ve opened another garage, gotten a franchise, become a local bigshot, and they could’ve become rich and lived in a house even better than this one, better decorated for sure. Dean could’ve gone to college, maybe on an athletic program, maybe even for academics, and Sam would be thinking about college too, trying to decide which Ivy League schools to apply to, Stanford or Yale or Columbia… 

He opens his eyes again and scowls at the kids lying on the couches. He can understand now why Dean claims to despise ordinary civilians so much, their lives are so easy, they have everything they need and they still complain. He, Dad and Dean dedicate their lives to keeping these sorts of people safe and they never get any thanks for it, never get any appreciation, just suspicion and contempt and disgusting trailers to live in. 

He blinks and snorts to himself, scanning the room again, hesitating when he spots a familar shape on the other side of the room. 

It's Dean, right over there, standing in an alcove, like, almost directly opposite him. Has Dean been here all this time? Fuck, how long has _he_ even been standing here? What the hell time is it anyway? 

He stares at his brother, vision swimming. Dean’s not alone. Of freaking course. There’s a girl with him, one of her bare, tanned shoulders propped up against the wall, facing Dean, hips jutting towards him and head tilted to one side, long, glossy hair tumbling down her back. She’s kinda pretty; it’s hard to tell from this distance. Least she looks pretty, like a typical cheerleader with her glossy hair, tan skin, plenty of makeup and tiny skirt. He thinks he recognizes her from school, one of those girls who wears her cheerleading uniform all the time, on and off the field. He’s often wondered about how that works. Do they all get automatically issued one uniform for game days, one for practices, and one to wear to every freaking class and every freaking other school activity, just so, heaven forbid, anyone ever forgets that they’re cheerleaders? 

She’s smiling widely, coquettishly, at Dean, eyes fixed on his face, like she’s really listening to what he’s saying. Dean shifts closer, shoulder against the wall, close enough for his knee to knock against her thigh. She leans into it, places one hand on Dean’s arm, on the sleeve of Dad’s leather jacket. Dean says something and she throws back her head and laughs. Sam snorts to himself and takes a big chug on his cider. Dean is making his move now, sliding his hand up her arm, curling his big hand around her shoulder. She sinks into him, pressing her body flush against his, her hands looping around his neck as he leans down to kiss her. Sam watches Dean take charge of the kiss, turn her around so she’s got her back to the room, and Dean’s got the wall behind him. 

Sam grimaces, gritting his teeth, feeling something clench up in his gut, something dark and ugly and biting. He finishes off his cider, draining the rest in a couple of nauseating, long swigs. He tosses the empty cup to the floor, it lands on its side and rolls away, fetching up against the leg of a mahogany coffee table, a mahogany coffee table that’s now covered in half-finished drinks, empty cans and cigarette butts. He bends and picks up the spare cup of cider he’d placed carefully on the floor, the one that was supposed to be for Ali before he decided to dump Sam for some freaking uber-nerd. His head is swimming by the time he manages to straighten up again, grateful for the wall against his back, holding him up. 

He takes an invigorating sip and turns his eyes on Dean again, and freezes. 

Dean’s looking right at him. Dean’s making out with the chick, but his eyes are wide open and they’re entirely fixed on Sam. 

Sam gulps, steadies himself, reaching with one hand to grip the pine dado. Dean’s gaze narrows in on him, eyes darkening, glittering. He’s still making out with the chick, one hand in her hair and the other on her ass, but he’s looking over her shoulder like she’s not even there, all his attention is on Sam. 

Sam’s heart speeds up, pulse thump-thump-thumping like a chase through the woods on a full-moon. The heat is breaking through his skin, tearing and flooding through every pore in his body, and he suddenly understands what people mean when they say they’re on fire. He can’t look away, he can’t break eye contact. He has to know what Dean’s thinking, if Dean’s remembering the other night, if Dean’s remembering how it felt to wrap his fingers around his little brother’s cock and make him fall apart. 

He raises one shaky hand to his forehead, his burning, sweaty forehead, and pushes his hair off his face. He feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust, and he knows from first-hand experience that spontaneous human combustion exists. He could go up in flames at any moment, nothing but a pile of alcohol soaked ashes in this chintzy living room. 

He moans under his breath and wrenches his gaze away, ducking his head and concentrating on finishing his drink. When he manages to raise his head again, Dean and the girl have disappeared. 

He makes his way outside; his head is spinning, the room with it, and his stomach churning. He’s going to throw up, he knows he’s going to throw up, and not’s just ‘cause of all the beer and cider and everything, it’s ‘cause Dean left with her. Dean was looking at him but he went with her. 

He knows he sounds like a petulant child in his head, but it’s not fucking fair. Dean shouldn’t be allowed to do that. Just go with people – anybody – like that. 

The air outside feels good against his flushed skin when he finally makes it out there. He skirts around the pool and heads towards the clumps of bushes at the end of the yard, which look pleasantly devoid of people. When he judges himself far enough away from the house for anyone to notice, he falls to the ground. The grass is cool and chilled against his sweaty shirt. It smells good, clean and fresh and earthy. Dean smelt earthy, sweaty and earthy and tangy, he tasted even better. 

He rolls onto his front and buries his nose in the ground, grass tickling his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels his body start to spin, round and round and round. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears someone calling out his name. “Sam! Sam!” 

He’s not sure he recognizes that voice so he keeps quiet. Anyway, he’s not even sure he’s capable of responding, his throat has gone numb, his mouth tasting as disgusting as one of the trailer’s waste pipes. It feels so good lying here, and he’s so tired and aching and his stomach’s still churning. He wants to curl up and die, just like that time the basilisk poison got into him and he was in a fever for three days, Dean sitting by his bed and holding his hand, bathing him in frozen washcloths to try and keep his fever down, his face grey with fatigue and worry. He remembers opening his eyes after the fever finally broke, and seeing the expression of joy and relief on his brother’s face, and knowing with sudden and absolute clarity that he loved his big brother more than anything else in his life. 

_“Sammy!”_

He jolts awake again, eyes snapping open. He knows that voice. There’s only one person at this party who calls him that. 

He groans and tries to roll onto his side, get some leverage – a knee, a foot, a hand, whatever – to try and make it at least to a sitting position. If he could sit up then maybe he’d be able to see Dean when he finally finds him. 

It’s too fucking hard though, and everything aches. He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“Jesus, Sam. There you are. What the fuck’ve you been drinking, man?” 

Sam wrenches his eyes open again and sees his brother looming over him, looking down at him with a mixture concern and exasperation. “Dean?” he croaks. 

Dean shakes his head, blows out a breath, then squats down. “Here, c’mon, we gotta leave. Your geeky pal is freakin’ out. Apparently it’s past his curfew.” Dean rounds that sentence off with a snort of contempt. 

“Dean, can’t move,” he groans. 

Dean sighs, “Christ, you’re such a freakin’ lightweight. Last damn time I’m letting you drink.” 

“Shut up, you weren’t there,” he slurs. “Fuckin’ abandoned me, Dean, left me to make out with some skank.” 

“Sam." 

“Whatever, like you even care.” 

Dean sighs again then slides one arm around Sam’s back, the other on his arm, maneuvering them so Sam’s half slumped across his back. Sam goes limp and lets his brother take control. After all, Dean’s had plenty of practice lifting and carrying him over the years, drunkenness is nothing. 

“Fuck, you weigh a ton,” Dean bitches. 

“Lightweight.” 

Dean snorts. “Keep that up and I’ll let you choke on your own vomit. Now, c’mon, move your legs. We’re getting out of here.” 

Sam goes quiet, obeys. He’s surprised to realize that he can still walk, that his legs still work with Dean’s help. He turns his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, slumps closer against him, letting Dean’s hold on him tighten. It feels good to be held so close by Dean, just like the other night, when Dean held him and touched him and it felt so amazing. 

Dean smells good too. He blinks his eyes open and stares at the patch of skin on Dean’s neck right by his eye line. Dean’s got a new bruise there, a purple, livid, mouth-shaped bruise. A hickey. That chick, that skanky cheerleader gave Dean a hickey. The realization is enough to make him pause, come screeching to a halt. Dean turns his head, glares at him in exasperation. 

“Sam for Christ’s sake, c’mon.” 

“You got a hickey.” 

“So fuckin’ what? It ain’t the first time.” 

“I don’t like it. I don’t like her mark on you, Dean. S’doesn’t deserve you, none of them deserve you. They don’t know you.” 

Dean’s expression changes, he licks his lips, face flushing slightly. He blinks, says in a softer tone, “Sam, we can’t. Not here, man.” 

“You were lookin’ at me, Dean. I remember, before, you were makin’ out with her, but you were lookin’ at me.” He watches his brother closely, sees the recognition dawn dark and terrified in his eyes. “See, I know you remember too.” 

“Sammy-–“ 

“Don’t deny it.” 

He watches his brother swallow, sees his throat move. He wants to touch it badly, put his lips against the flushed, stubbled skin of Dean’s throat. He wants to bite it, leave his mark on his brother just like that skank did.

“Sam, c’mon, let’s go.” Dean turns his head, forces them to keep moving. 

 

*************************

 

He doesn’t remember much of the journey back, vague memories of orange streetlights shining against his closed eyes, Ali’s eager, jabbering voice and Dean’s monosyllabic responses. He thinks he must’ve passed out at some point because he doesn’t remember getting into the trailer or getting into bed. But when he finally wakes up the next day, it’s light outside and he’s stripped down to just his boxers. There’s also a saucepan full of vomit by his side of the bed, and the bedroom smells disgusting. 

Dean isn’t there. 

He staggers out of bed and takes an enormously long piss, one hand braced against the wall as he stares down into the toilet bowl. His head is throbbing wickedly, like his brains want to burst out of it – and he knows that can happen – he’s seen that happen with his own eyes. He shakes off, flushes, washes his hands and pads out into the living area. Dean’s sitting at the table, reading, a stack of periodicals by his elbow. 

“How’re you feeling?” asks Dean

He groans, he’s still not sure if he’s capable of making word shapes with his mouth. He’s so thirsty. 

He stumbles to the sink, turns on the tap and gets a glass of water. It’s warm and brackish and it tastes disgusting, but he’s so thirsty that he doesn’t care. He chugs the glass without a pause, and gets another. 

“Whoa, not so fast, slow down, you’ll throw up again,” Dean says. 

He pauses, swallowing down the mouthful and gasping for breath, staring blankly at his brother. “What?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to hold your hair back this time.” 

He wrinkles his nose in disgust, then he remembers the saucepan by the bed. 

“Did I throw up – before?” 

“Yup, you most definitely did. Once in that sink right there where you’re standing, once in the toilet and once in that saucepan by your bed. S’fuckin’ disgusting, man. Oh, and by the way, you’re grounded.” 

“You can’t ground me!”

Dean quirks up one eyebrow. “Can’t I? How about I tell Dad about the state you were in – see what he says?” 

Sam swallows, sees his brother’s expression get amused, then Sam frowns, says, “Whatever, you know Dad’ll just ground you too for letting me get so drunk.” 

Dean hesitates and Sam can see that he’s assessing the threat, judging it valid. After all, it is kinda Dean’s fault. It was a senior party, one of Dean’s meathead teammates, and Dean was there too, but he was too busy making out with some skank to even notice Sam. Dean should’ve been looking out for him. He would never have gotten that drunk if Dean hadn’t abandoned him. 

Obviously Dean has come to the same conclusion because he sighs, says, “Whatever, but you owe me big time, and you’re cleaning up that saucepan – and I’m talkin’ bleach, dude. I’ve already cleaned the sink and the toilet this morning of your upchuck. I ain’t doing it again.” 

“Okay, fine,” Sam sighs. He pads around to the table, pulls out the chair and takes a seat, dropping his head into his hands. “I feel so bad, Dean.” 

Dean just snorts, goes back to his reading. Eventually, Sam gets up from the table, takes his glass of water and goes back to bed. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time he wakes up again, but when he leans over the bed, he sees that the vomit pan has gone and that the enormous pile of laundry in the corner of the bedroom has also gone. There’s a window open and the room smells about forty times better than it did before. There’s also a bottle of ginger ale and some Alka seltzer by the bed, together with a glass of cool water. He collapses back into bed and smiles to himself. Sometimes his brother is awesome. 

He takes some Alka seltzer and sips at the ginger ale. It tastes amazing. He puts on Dean’s flip-flops and heads back out into the trailer. Dean’s sitting at the kitchen table, still reading the periodicals, but he’s cleaned up, work tops and stove top gleaming, floor swept and trash emptied. 

Dean looks up when he hears Sam come in, and smiles at him. “You’re back in the land of the living? Feel better?” 

Sam doesn’t answer, just stares at his brother for a long loaded moment, then he walks forward, pushes Dean’s chair away from the table and sinks to his lap. 

“Jesus Christ, Sam, what the fuck?” 

Sam cups his brother’s face, leans into him, grinding his ass down into Dean’s strong thighs. He’s naked except for his shorts and the flip-flops and he knows at some point after they got back from the party Dean must’ve stripped him; Dean must’ve removed his clothes when he was too wasted to notice. He wonders if Dean looked at him, if Dean touched him and caressed him like he wants to do with Dean. He doubts it. Dean would never take advantage of him like that. 

_“Dean,”_ he whispers. He lowers his head, nuzzles against the side of Dean’s face, the raspy stubble against his cheek. _“Dean.”_

He feels Dean’s arms come tentatively around him, pat him awkwardly on the back, smooth over his bare flesh. The sensation of his brother’s hands on his naked back sends a ripple down his spine, makes him shudder, his cock getting even harder. God, he’s so horny, he’s so fucking turned on, and Dean smells so good, feels so good. 

“Dean, please…” he pleads. 

He hears Dean swallow, sees him tilt his head back, their eyes meeting. “You want this, Sam?” Dean asks, so quiet and uncertain. 

“God, yes, so much, so much. You gotta – I’m so freakin’ horny.” He rocks his hips up against Dean. “Want you so much. Can’t stop thinking about it. God, Dean, please.” 

Dean’s mouth twitches and he chuckles lowly. “Okay, okay, but – uh – not here. Get to your feet.” 

Dean tips him off his lap, steadies his arm. Sam grabs a fistful of his brother’s shirt, trying not to lose contact as they stumble to the bedroom. 

Sam dives onto the bed, rolls over onto his back and holds out a hand, flexing his fingers imperiously. “C’mon, Dean, quick, c’mere, now!” 

He watches, heart racing, pulse throbbing in his skull as Dean pulls his shirt over his head, shucks his jeans down and steps out of them, down to his boxers and socks. He hesitates by the edge of the bed, and Sam can see the worry flicker over his face, the uncertainty and fear. Well, he’s not going to let Dean get away now. He leans up and grabs onto his brother’s hand, yanks him forward. Dean stumbles and belly-flops onto the mattress beside him. 

“Under the covers!” Sam tells him, and Dean sniggers, finally loosening up as he quickly obeys. 

Under the covers, it’s hot and dark and Dean is _everywhere._ Their naked skin brushes together, the touches making Sam’s stomach bottom out, emptied of everything except this feeling – this sensation of Dean being over him and under him and in between. They’re giggling and sniggering and pawing at each other, half-wrestling and half-caressing, touching every bit of skin they can get their hands on. Dean’s fingers are tugging at Sam’s underwear, yanking them over the curve of his ass, pulling them down his long thin thighs. Sam shudders, gasps out loud when he feels his brother’s hand brush against his balls, his fingers fist around his cock. 

Everything is darker, headier, crazier under the covers. They’re safe and no one’s going to know under here. They’re in their own little world, just the two of them, and Dean’s around him, pulling Sam in close so their skin melds together, his nipples hard against Sam’s chest, his cock digging into Sam’s thigh. Sam feels delirious and he can’t stop the crazy sniggers from welling up. Dean shushes him, whispers, _“Shh, Sammy, c’mere, Sam, God_ …” into his ear, hot breath puff-puffing against his cheek. 

Dean rolls them over until he’s on top. Sam wraps his legs around his brother’s waist, arches his hips up so their cocks brush together. The sensation is too much, and it’s so hot and stifling and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe for how good it feels. His body is on fire, his heart thumping so hard it’s going to burst out of his chest. And Dean’s body is all over him, blanketing him, his mouth barely an inch from Sam’s, his hand gently brushing Sam’s hair back from his face as he grinds his hips down into Sam’s, rubbing their dicks together. 

Sam clutches onto Dean’s shoulders, slippery with sweat, buries his face in the crook of his brother’s neck, inhales his brother’s scent, musky and powerful in this secret world under the covers. He can’t see Dean, it’s too dark, and this could be anybody, but it’s not. It’s Dean. He knows the smell and the feel and the sounds of Dean. He knows every part of Dean so well. He knows his likes and dislikes, he knows how Dean will react in a certain situation and he knows what to say to get Dean to do anything he wants. And now, he’s getting to know everything else. There won’t be any part of Dean where Sam isn’t present, where Sam isn’t first and foremost. It’s how it’s supposed to be. 

He cries out when he comes, the noise wrenched from his lungs, so desperate it’s painful, his body shuddering through the orgasm like a thousand volts of electricity, his dick throbbing and twitching and pulsing. He holds Dean close when Dean follows, seconds after him, his brother’s release hitting Sam’s scorched skin, as hot and sticky as barbecue sauce. Dean collapses on top of him, smearing the gooey mess between their bellies. With an enormous effort, Sam reaches up and tosses the blankets down, exposing their tousled, red faces to the world. 

The colder air hits his face and he pants for breath, chest spasming as he laughs out loud. He feels exhilarated, adrenaline hotter than a hunt, better than scoring the winning goal in a soccer game. He feels delirious and happy and Dean is still there, still with him. Dean’s face is pressed into his neck, lips against his throat, hot sweaty hair in Sam’s mouth. 

Sam pats the back of his brother’s head, brushes the tips of his fingers gently through the soft razored hairs at Dean’s nape. Dean shudders at the touch, lifts his head; he looks dazed, shaken. 

“Dean,” Sam whispers. “You-–“ he breaks off, can’t think of the words. Instead he smiles, so hard his face aches. “That was incredible.” 

Dean shakes his head, he looks uncertain, frightened. “Sam-–“ 

“No, no, no, listen to me. That was amazing – that was… It’s what I want, Dean. Listen to me: this is - you – the only good thing – you’re the only good thing. My life sucks and I hate this place and this town and this horrible trailer, and every fucking school we go to, and the awful motel rooms, and everything. I hate it all, Dean. But you – you’re the only good thing. And I love you so fucking much. You gotta know that, right? This feels so right and good and no one will get it, no one will ever understand because they’re not us. But _this_ is us, you and me, and there’s nothing more important than you and me.” 

He pauses for breath, amazed that Dean has even managed to make out any word in six of his incoherent rambling. 

“This makes you happy?” Dean murmurs. 

Sam nods vigorously, cups his brother’s face, stares into his eyes, trying to force Dean to read him as he usually does so easily, to just _get it._

“Yes, fuck, yes. This is – _you_ – Dean – being with you – that makes me happy. You just – you keep me from going crazy, from hating everything. Don’t you see that? I need you.” 

Dean licks his lips, flutters his eyes shut, when he opens them again, they’re shiny, red-rimmed. 

“Sam, you’re only sixteen, man. You’re a teenager, these feelings – they’ll go. You’ll get over it. You’ll feel differently in a couple of years, it’s just – it’s teenage shit, man, I remember how it is-–“ 

“You think I’ll get over you? You think I’ll ever love anyone the way I love you?” Sam interrupts. “Dean, c’mon, this isn’t just a _thing_. Give me some fucking credit!” 

Dean huffs out a long breath, bows his head. “Sammy, I’m not sure – we can’t-–“ 

“Yes we can, Dean. Yes we can. We gotta. I can’t – I can’t stand it if you’re not – if I don’t have you. I can’t watch you with other girls and with – with guys like that asshole, that disgusting pervert.” He breaks off, licks his lips, fear suddenly starting to take hold of him, flutter in his belly. “You do want me, don’t you? You do – you want me back? Like I want you?” 

Dean hesitates and when he looks back at Sam he looks agonized, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. “How can you doubt that?” 

“Ohhh,” Sam sighs, so relieved. His lips curl into a smile. “Thank God, I thought for a moment that it was just – just me." 

Dean smiles at him, reaches to brush the hair back off his face. “Believe me, it’s not just you.” 

 

They get dressed, order Chinese take-out from the only place in town that delivers to the trailer park. Sam devours his own food and half of Dean’s. He’s ravenous, needing to line his empty stomach again after throwing everything up. Dean laughs at him and leans over to kiss him with sweet and sour sauce on his lips. 

It’s the first time they’ve ever kissed. 

When they’re done, when all the food’s gone, they lie on the couch, curled up together to watch TV. Sam lies in front of Dean, his back to Dean’s chest, Dean’s arm slung around him, hand under Sam’s shirt, splayed out over his stomach. He can feel his brother’s cock pressed up against his ass, his brother’s lips against the nape of his neck, and he closes his eyes to savor it. 

He can’t imagine ever being happier than he is at this one moment.

They go to bed at the same time, watching each other as they shed their clothes and crawl under the covers. They make out for ages, like they’ve just discovered it, and it feels to Sam that he has just discovered it. He’s kissed girls before, but it never felt like this. 

The next day is Sunday and Mason has a list of jobs for Dean. Sam accompanies him because although he hates the maintenance jobs, he hates the thought of being away from Dean for hours even more. They’re both stupidly distracted, making simple mistakes, too busy staring at each other, at _parts_ of each other. It takes them three hours to change a washer on a sink, both of them getting drenched in gusts of water until they’re forced to shuck off their sodden shirts, and then it’s even harder to concentrate, Dean’s damp, glistening skin _right there_.

He’s on Dean as soon as they get back to their own trailer, pushing him to the couch and straddling him, leaning down to suck brands of ownership into his chest and shoulders. Dean writhes and pants and arches up, tangling his hands in Sam’s hair and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. They’re both desperate for each other, rutting and humping, couch squeaking underneath them, loud and noisy and rough, until it feels like even the trailer is shaking around them. Sam collapses on top of his brother when they’re done, presses gentle kisses along Dean’s jaw and across his forehead. Dean closes his eyes and laughs, lets Sam do what he wants to him, drum down kisses over every inch of him, lick his armpits and tug at his pubic hair with his teeth, suck bruises into the crease of his thigh and tongue at his nipples. 

“Is it always like this?” Sam murmurs between kisses. “Is it - with other people, Dean – is it like this?” 

Dean shakes his head, eyes still squeezed shut, lashes fluttering. “No, Sammy, no, never like this with anyone else. Just you.” 

Sam sighs, pleased, and kisses his brother’s closed eyelids.


	4. Chapter 4

Monday comes way too fast. He sits in European History and thinks about his brother, absently taking notes on the Munich Crisis. He’s always found it easy to multi-task, to sit and take notes and listen to the professor, while his mind is focused elsewhere. Usually it’s on their latest hunts, trying to find the connection, remember the lore. Today his mind is completely focused on Dean. 

At lunchtime, he heads to the football field to watch Dean’s practice. The coach is letting him train with the other players today and Dean was excited about it on the ride to school, babbling on about his chances of making the game on Friday. 

He hunkers down into the bleachers, and watches the players run laps around the field. The four coaches and a couple of boosters, Paul Ferguson included, are by the sideline, and Sam scowls, directing his best death-glare Paul Ferguson’s way. It’s at times like these that he wishes he had super powers, ‘cause if he did, Paul Ferguson would be a ball of steaming shit by this point. 

Normally, he reads or studies while he watches Dean’s practice, but today, he only has eyes for his brother. He tracks him like he’s Dean’s own personal player-cam, watching him run the plays, go into the huddles, move through the exercises and tackles. Every so often, he sees Dean look up, shade his eyes, glance in the direction of the bleachers, and his cock gets so blindingly hard he has to hold onto the edge of the wooden bench.

Practice ends and he gets up from his seat, shoulders his bag and descends the bleachers. Dean’s lagging back as the other players jog off towards the locker room, bending to get a couple of bottles of water from the cooler. Sam smiles to himself, he knows that Dean’s waiting for him, and he speeds up a little, wanting to get to his brother. 

He speeds up even more when he sees Paul Ferguson pat the coach on the back and step onto the field, making for Dean. He sees Dean look up, glance towards Paul Ferguson as the guy approaches. Sam comes to a halt, narrows his gaze, watches Paul Ferguson reach out and touch Dean’s shoulder. From a distance, it looks like a friendly pat, but Sam knows that it’s way more than that, and he can tell from Dean’s body-language, from the way his brother’s eyes track down to the hand on his shoulder and then back to Paul Ferguson’s face that he’s not happy. 

Sam grimaces and walks faster, calling out: “Dean! Hey, Dean!” 

Dean spins around, looks at him, his face carefully blank. Paul Ferguson turns to look at him too, and Sam doesn’t miss the grimace of irritation flicker across his face. He’s not realized it before, but Paul Ferguson does not like him. Well, that’s good, that’s real good, ‘cause Sam can’t fucking stand the creepy fucker. 

Dean says something to Paul Ferguson then breaks away from him, coming towards Sam. 

“Was he bothering you? What was he saying?” Sam demands as soon as Dean is within earshot. 

Dean frowns at him, shakes his head. “Keep your voice down, man.” 

Sam glances over his brother’s shoulder, Paul Ferguson is still standing where Dean left him, watching the two of them closely – too fucking closely. 

“Has he gone?” asks Dean. 

“No, he’s still watching us.” 

He sees Dean tense, his mouth set in a hard-line. “C’mon,” he grits out. 

They walk across the field towards the bleachers, the pads Dean’s still wearing on his shoulders brushing against Sam as they walk. Sam glances over his shoulder, notes that Paul Ferguson is finally walking away. He lets out a sigh of relief, turns to look at his brother’s profile. “What was he saying to you?” 

“You don’t need to know. I’m handling it.” 

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! You’re my brother, whatever concerns you, concerns me! You’d want to know if it were the other way round!” 

“If it were the other way round the mother-fucker who touched you would be fuckin’ dead already!” Dean growls. 

“So you know how I feel!” 

Dean huffs out a sigh. “Alright, Jesus.” 

They’ve come to the bleachers and Dean takes a seat, drops his head into his hands. When he raises his head, he looks tired, worried, that line between his eyebrows. Sam wants to reach out trace that line. He glances around quickly, there’s no one else there, so he does, he brushes his finger over the line of Dean’s eyebrows, his bruised cheekbone. Dean’s hand comes up, covers his, he gives him a quick squeeze then drops Sam’s hand again. 

“I really fucked up, Sammy,” he says finally. 

Sam’s mouth goes dry, he swallows hard, says, “Why?” 

“He – uh – he ain’t taking it well, and that’s a fuckin’ understatement. He says he wants to leave his wife for me. He says that he loves me, that he’s been miserable for years, that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he doesn’t know what to do without me. Jesus Christ.” He curls his hands around his spandex-clad kneecaps, gaze locked on floor. 

“He – what? He wants to leave his wife for you? But I thought – you said – it was just – just fucking around?” 

“It was! Least that’s what I thought. Christ, man, I didn’t think that he was getting attached to me. He’s nearly forty for fuck’s sake! He just – fuck, Sam, I didn’t know he was a freakin’ closet case. Well I guess I kinda did, ‘cause duh, but he – he says he’s sick of pretending and he can’t stop thinking about me. The only thing he cares about is being with me. I think he’s losing it, man.” 

Sam thinks about that night in the trailer, thinks about the expression on Paul Ferguson’s face when he cradled Dean’s cheek, when he leaned in to kiss Dean, the reverent blissful look in his eyes. The way he drank Dean in before he left like he was trying to brand the image on his retinas forever. He was never going to go easily. 

“I just wish Dad would come back so we could leave this fuckin’ place,” Dean says wearily. “We so need to get out of here.” 

God, yes. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to leave somewhere so badly. Sure, he’ll miss Ali, though that’s more about guilt for how Ali will feel when he leaves than real sadness at leaving Ali behind. He’s left so many friends behind over the years that he’s learned not to get attached anymore. 

They hear the bell ring and Dean gets to his feet, looks down at Sam. “You should be getting to class.” 

“What are you gonna do?” 

“Get changed. Go home. I'm not going to class again.” 

Sam’s not surprised. Dean’s only been attending enough classes to be allowed to play on the team. He’s already gotten his GED, if it wasn’t for the hunt that brought them here and their undercover mission, he wouldn’t even have bothered attending school at all. 

“You got practice tonight?” Dean asks. 

Sam nods. “Yeah.” 

“Okay, well, I’ll be there.” 

Sam smiles at him. Dean smiles back, bright and beautiful, making Sam’s chest feel full. Dean reaches out, cups the side of his face, hand lingering a little too long for brotherly affection. “See you later.” 

 

*************************

 

Soccer practice is uneventful, except for Dean’s presence on the sidelines. It makes Sam feel hyper-aware of himself, self-conscious of how he looks in his shorts and jersey. He strives that little bit harder, pushes himself a little more than usual, earning a rare, “Good hustle, Winchester!” from Coach Wharf. When he manages a glance in Dean’s direction, he sees his brother’s smile, big and proud, and his skin tingles. 

“Hey, you two are pretty good!” Dean calls out to Sam and Ali when practice is over. 

“Don’t sound surprised,” Sam snarks. 

Dean laughs, and Sam glances at Ali. Ali’s blushing, gazing at Dean in his leather jacket and ripped jeans with something half way between hero-worship and straightforward lust. Sam feels a flush of pride – that’s his brother – his brother who only has eyes for him. 

The ride home on the motorcycle feels like foreplay. He presses his groin up against Dean’s ass, slides his hands under Dean’s shirt and jacket, and over his tight abdominal muscles. By the time Dean turns the bike into the trailer park, no time for a detour tonight, he’s rock hard. 

Of course his erection immediately wilts and deflates when he spots the Impala parked out the front of the trailer. 

He immediately jerks away from Dean, loosening his grip on his brother’s body. By the time Dean’s parked the bike and Sam’s gathering up his school bag, his erection has entirely gone. He exchanges a quick glance with his brother before they head inside; Dean looks anxious, tongue slicking over his lips, eyes wide and unsure. 

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” Sam says. And this feels weird – weird but good – to be the one reassuring Dean for once. 

Dean nods shortly, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Yeah, course. S’just Dad. ‘Bout time he was back.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. 

Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table, mug of coffee by his elbow, maps and newspaper articles and his journal laid out in front of him. He looks up as they walk in, nods in greeting. 

“Boys, I want you packed and ready to leave 0800 hours tomorrow morning. New job up in Minnesota.” 

“Yes, sir,” they answer in unison. 

Dad takes a sip from his mug, eying them over the rim, cataloging any changes. 

“Dean, you got a bruise on your face? Where’d you get that? Not fighting I hope.” 

“No, sir. It was, uh, it was football.” 

Sam darts a quick glance at his brother, feels him tense up. He swallows in turn, waits for the interrogation, the inevitable recrimination. 

Dad frowns, says, “Football?” 

“Uh, yes, yes, sir. It was in a game, last Friday. A bad tackle. But I’m okay, Dad, I’m fine to hunt, no problem. We went to the hospital, I got checked out.” 

“A hospital, how’d you swing that?” 

Sam hears the hesitation in Dean’s voice. Dean’s never lied to Dad, and he’s hardly going to start now, but talking about last week’s visit to the hospital means talking about Paul Ferguson. 

“It was one of the coaches,” Sam interjects quickly. “They took us, both of us. I went with Dean. And the school, the team, paid for it. They have insurance for these things.” 

“Right,” Dad says shortly. His expression doesn’t change. “Sammy, go pack. I’m gonna have a word with your brother.” 

Sam reluctantly heads towards the bedroom. Obviously the great-to-see-you-boys-how-have-you-been part of the welcome is over, (if it had ever begun), now it’s time for the what-the-hell-were-you-thinking part of the evening. 

He listens to his father’s raised voice as he absently gathers up his stuff. It doesn’t take long for him to pack everything he owns. He hesitates over the copies of X-Men that Ali leant him. He has to figure out some way to get these back to Ali, he’ll be devastated if he loses them, and Sam already feels guilty enough about leaving. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and listens to Dad yelling at Dean. Dad is pissed, and not just because of Dean’s injury, not just because Dean was still playing sports even after it was no longer materially useful for the hunt, Dad is just pissed. He’s in one of those dark moods and as always, Dean is going to bear the brunt of it. 

Sam smoothes his hand over the comics on his lap, he wants to get them back to Ali, have a chance to say goodbye. Ali’s been a good friend, one of the few good things, the only good thing (apart from Dean), about this horrible town. 

The door flies open and Dean comes in, breathing heavily. He looks pissed, mouth set and eyes flashing. 

“You packed my shit too?” he demands. 

Sam shakes his head. “No.” 

“Why not? Do I have to do that as well?” 

Sam’s anger flairs up. “Fuck you! Just ‘cause Dad’s been giving you shit, don’t mean you can unload on me!” 

Dean stares at him for a moment, then he blows out a breath, a half-hearted laugh. 

“What?” Sam demands. 

“Nothing.” Dean’s mouth twitches, he quirks up one eyebrow. “Just – you’re kinda cute when you’re all pissed like that.” 

Sam blushes red ‘cause that... that ain’t freaking fair. Dean’s looking smug. He knows he totally won this round. 

“You’re such a jerk!” he manages finally. It’s a weak insult, and Dean knows it, just laughs out loud, says, “Take a freakin’ compliment, man.” 

A knock on the trailer door startles them. They look at each other as they listen to their father’s heavy tread, the door creaking open. 

“If it’s that fucker, Mason again,” Dean starts to say, then he breaks off, face paling as he takes in the voices. “Holy shit, I can’t-–“ 

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just spins out of the bedroom and into the living room, Sam following on his heels, confused. 

Sam stops dead when he recognizes Paul Ferguson, standing on the front steps, one hand curled around the open doorframe, like he’s about to force his way inside. Dad’s standing on the other side of the door, his hand on the doorknob, like he’s about to slam it in Paul Ferguson’s face. Sam hadn’t noticed it before, but looking at Dad and Paul Ferguson like this, face to face and head to head, he’s suddenly struck by how alike they look, how similar in build and features and coloring, with the same short dark hair, bristled chins and hard solid bodies. Still, Paul Ferguson doesn’t quite have Dad’s murderous dead-eyed gaze, and seriously, if the asshole had any sense, he’d back away and leave right the fuck now ‘cause Sam knows from experience that _that_ look on Dad’s face usually precedes some monster getting its guts ripped out. 

“You want to speak to my son?” Dad repeats, his tone scathing and deliberate, like he’s addressing a particularly retarded person. “Well we’re leaving tomorrow. He has to pack.” 

“You’re leaving? But, Dean." Paul Ferguson makes another attempt to get his foot in the door, Dad doesn’t even flinch. Sam grins to himself; the fucking pervert has seriously no fucking idea what or who he’s dealing with here. This is awesome. 

“Dad?” Dean says, and his voice is tentative, hesitant. “Just let me talk to him, just for a couple of minutes. Only be a couple of minutes.” 

Sam feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, he swallows, looks at his brother. Betrayal – Dean’s betraying them – he said it was _over_ and now… 

Dad, though, Dad isn’t letting it go so easily. He ignores Dean like he hasn’t even spoken, just directs a contemplative gaze on Paul Ferguson. “I’m wondering what you and my son might have to talk about.” 

“Football!” Dean bursts out. He glances quickly at Sam, eyes wide, imploring, begging him – _please, help me out, back me up_ \- Sam swallows, looks away. “He, uh, he took us to the hospital, he’s one of the boosters, the coaches for the team. He just – we were gonna talk tactics. And I have to explain about us leaving, about why I’m quittin’ the team. I won’t be long, Dad.” 

Dad makes no sign of having heard Dean, but he does take a step back from the door, lets Dean squeeze past him until he’s walking outside with Paul Ferguson. Dad closes the door behind them and Sam hears the crunch of gravel and squelch of mud as they move away from the trailer. Sam’s chest is tight, his throat hurts, he can’t believe - he just can’t fucking believe that Dean chose to speak to him, that Dean wants to say goodbye, that Dean still even cares _that_ much. 

“Was he telling the truth?” 

Sam jerks his head up. Dad is watching him closely, daring him to meet his eyes. He swallows, doesn’t say anything. He’s scared of speaking, because he can’t – he can’t back Dean up here. He has Dean’s back with everything, but not with this, not with Paul Ferguson. 

“Sammy! Answer me.” 

“Dad – he – they – he is one of the boosters and he did take us to the hospital,” he says quickly because that much is true.

“But?” Dad prompts. “What else? This is your brother, Sam, if he’s in trouble, if this guy is bad news then-–“ 

“He is bad news!” Sam blurts out. “He – they – they were…” he trails off, he can’t say it, can’t form the words: _they were involved, they were lovers, they were sleeping together, that motherfucking creep was touching my brother, your son, our Dean..._

He doesn’t have to say it. Dad is staring at him, boring those dark, dangerous, John Winchester eyes into Sam’s face, pulling the information from Sam’s head, from the expression on his face. 

Dad lunges for the door, crashes outside, door smacking against the flimsy metal, entire trailer rocking with the impact. 

Sam trembles, curls his fingers into useless fists, follows shakily after his father. 

_“You think you can touch my boy!”_

Dad grabs Paul Ferguson by the throat, slams him up against the side of the trailer. Sam stumbles down the steps, holds onto the wall, shaking, terrified. Dad’s forearm is pressed against Paul Ferguson’s throat; blocking his windpipe, holding him flat against the trailer, up off the ground. 

He has him in a chokehold, Sam thinks, that’s a chokehold. He can cut off his air supply, he can crush his windpipe. 

_“Did you touch my boy?”_

Dad roars the words in Paul Ferguson’s face, spittle flying from his lips, but Paul Ferguson can’t answer. Paul Ferguson can’t speak, coughing, spluttering, legs kicking uselessly at the dirt. 

Dad leans in closer. “He’s nineteen fucking years old!" Saliva drips down Paul Ferguson’s cheek, translucent and shiny. 

Twenty, Dad, he’s twenty, Sam thinks uselessly. He gulps, drags his eyes away from Dad and Paul Ferguson, sees Dean standing a couple of yards off, face stark and white, eyes round and terrified. 

“Dad," Dean murmurs. 

“Don’t fucking speak, Dean!” Dad snarls, and Dean’s mouth falls shut. Sam sees the ripple of his throat as he swallows. He pushes himself away from the trailer and sidles up to Dean, places his hand on Dean’s arm. Dean flinches, glances at him; Sam squeezes gently, wants to say the words out loud, something reassuring, just like Dean would do for him. After all, this is good, Dad is giving this asshole exactly what he deserves, and they’re leaving anyway. They’ll leave this place and this will all be forgotten and Dean will forget about Paul Ferguson and just be with Sam, like he should be. 

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” 

Dean and Sam spin around at the voice, but Dad doesn’t move, doesn’t release his hold on Paul Ferguson, doesn’t stop boring his manic gaze into Paul Ferguson’s face. Paul Ferguson’s face that so much resembles his own, and there’s something about that fact that’s starting to bother Sam, something that’s starting to niggle at him, but he’s distracted by the new arrivals: Mason-the-asshole, Bill Marmby and a couple of his thick-seat, beer-gutted buddies approaching with their hands in their pockets, red-neck snarls on their faces. 

“Jesus, that’s Paul Ferguson,” Bill Marmby says. 

“Winchester!” Mason calls out. “Whatcha doin’ with Paul Ferguson?” 

“None of your damned business,” Dad retorts, his tone admirably calm. “This is between me and him. No need for you boys to get involved. Right, Paul?” He leans in, squeezes something. Paul Ferguson lets out a groan and Sam sees the glint of Dad’s teeth in the porch-light, rabid and sneering. 

The four newcomers hesitate, glance between each other, then at Dean and Sam, then back at Dad and Paul Ferguson, as if they’re trying to measure the situation, figure out what good citizens are supposed to do. 

One of them, a guy that Sam doesn’t recognize, seems to come to some sort of a decision. He moves forward to place his hand on Dad’s shoulder, tugs at him to pull away. “You’re gonna crush his windpipe like that.” 

“I am,” says Dad evenly. 

Sam feels Dean flinch next to him, freeze up. He shifts closer, arms and hips brushing. He feels Dean relax minutely, lean back into him. 

“You wanna be up on a murder charge? ‘Cause you got four witnesses here, plus your boys. You want your boys to see you kill a man?” 

Sam wants to laugh out loud, the idea that this is the first time either he or Dean have seen their father kill anything is plainly ludicrous. They’ve been watching their father kill things – kill things with human faces – for years. There’s no innocence left in this family. 

Dad seems to take the words in differently. He hesitates, his shoulders come down some, as if he’s about to move away. 

“Dad, please,” Dean says, “don’t.” 

Sam sees Dad’s back stiffen, but he steps back, removes his forearm. Paul Ferguson chokes, gasping for breath, clawing at his abused throat. Dad grabs onto the front of his hunting jacket, yanks him away from the trailer, and pushes, hard. Paul Ferguson stumbles, flails, and falls backwards into the mud, landing with a squelching, thumping sound that’s almost comical.

Dad looms over him. "You are one lucky sonuvabitch!” he snarls, flecks of spittle landing on Ferguson's red, panting face. Dad straightens, looks around the assembled scene, eyes skittering over their audience of four before landing on Sam and Dean. His gaze narrows, daggered and fatal. “Boys! Inside!” 

Sam and Dean scramble to obey, gaining the trailer without a second look, Dad following, door crashing closed behind them. 

Sam stands in the middle of the room next to Dean. He can feel his brother shaking through the scant inches of space between them and he draws closer, arms brushing. Outside, they can hear the sounds of the men’s voices, the four guys helping Paul Ferguson to his feet. Everyone shocked and dazed and Paul Ferguson gruff and embarrassed and barking orders at the guys to _leave me the fuck alone!_. Eventually the voices fade away and still – still – Dad hasn’t stopped watching the two of them. 

“Sam, go wait in the bedroom.” 

“No,” Sam says, the refusal leaving his lips before he’s even realized it. 

“Sammy! This is not the time for one of your little rebellions.” Dad’s tone is getting dangerous again, but Sam’s not going to give in this time. He’s not going to leave Dean. 

“No, Dad. I’m not leaving.” 

“Sam, I ain’t gonna ask again, boy!" 

“I said no! Anyway, even if you send me to the bedroom then I’ll still hear everything – the walls in this shitheap are too fucking-–“

The slap catches him unawares before he even realizes it, and he’s reeling, his face stinging, thundercrack of flesh on flesh ringing out loud. He hears Dean’s shocked intake of breath, feels his brother’s shoulder against his own, the silent support, and he brings his hand tentatively to his face, touches the burning, red patch where his father just struck him. His eyes are watering, body shaking, but he’s not leaving. He is not leaving Dean. 

Dean steps forward, right shoulder covering Sam, protecting him, laying himself open for Dad’s next blow. Sam can see that he’s trembling, and despite his size and his relative muscle, he looks so fragile standing up to Dad. 

“Dad, this has nothing to do with Sammy. Anything you gotta say – anything you gotta do – you take it out on me. This is my fault, my fuck-up.” 

Dad is breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, eyes so dark Sam isn’t sure where his pupils begin and his irises end. He blinks when Dean speaks, darts a quick glance to Sam, looking away again immediately as if looking at Sam hurts, as if he can’t quite believe he struck his son. Well, that’s good – that’s fucking right, he _should_ feel guilty. 

“He should obey me,” Dad growls. “It’s his own fault, always answering back. If I ever talked back to my father like he does…” he trails off, gaze dark and hooded. “But Sammy ain’t the point. He knows what’s been going on. If you don’t tell me, Dean, then he will. _Who was that man_?” 

Sam sees Dean stiffen, his shoulders tense, then he nods, bites his lip. “Yeah, okay. Well, he and I – we were – we were screwing around together. But it wasn’t ever anything more than that! It was just – just sex,” his voice cracks over the last few words and Sam hears him take in a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Sir.”

“So you like boys? You’re queer? All that talk about chicks was just talk then? Just a way to fool your old man?” 

Sam flinches at the accusation, the biting contempt in his father’s voice. He thinks about him and Ali, thinks about – oh God – about him and Dean. 

“No, no, Sir. No, that’s true. I like girls. I really like girls!” Dean protests. “But I just – sometimes I like guys too. And he. I guess I was flattered he liked me, and I thought he was hot and I was stupid, naive. It was a mistake. I fucked up, Dad, and I’ll – whatever you think I have to do to make it up then I’ll do it. I know it was wrong.” 

Dad doesn’t say anything for a while, then he turns, shoulders slumping. They stand there in silence and watch their father slouch back towards the kitchen table. He draws out the chair, legs scraping against the greasy linoleum. He reaches for the whiskey bottle, pours a generous swig into the china mug sitting by the piles of newspaper cuttings. They stand there while he takes a couple of long sips. Then he coughs, clears his throat, speaks succinctly, no emotion in his voice. 

“If it happens again, Dean, the next guy won’t be so lucky. He’ll get a bullet through his brain. If you don’t wanna be the reason for a man’s death then you quit behaving like a whore.” 

Dean pales, face creasing up in pain. He nods shakily, and Sam sees the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. “Ye –yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” 

Dad says nothing, takes another sip of his drink. “Both of you go to bed.” 

It’s a dismissal, and Sam is grateful for it, grateful to get out of this room, get away from his father. He can feel the tears welling up in his own eyes, the slump to Dean’s shoulders, the weight on his back making Sam want to take his brother in his arms and rain down kisses on every inch of his body, tell him not to listen to anything Dad says. Dean’s not a whore, Dean is Sam’s favorite person in the entire world. Dean is a million fucking times better than their father. 

Sam closes the bedroom door and turns to see Dean standing directly behind him. Silently, Dean places his hand on Sam’s chin, tilts his face to look at the bright red forming bruise on his cheek. 

“Does it hurt?” he murmurs. 

Sam lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “S’okay, had worse.” 

Dean bites his lip, drops his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Why? Wasn’t you who hit me.” 

Dean flinches, turns away from him to start shucking his clothes. “It was my fault. I provoked him – if he hadn’t been so upset about – about--” he trails off, licks his lips. “Well, normally, he would never have hit you.” 

Sam pushes back the knot of exasperation, shrugs again, says, “Whatever, it’s done now, and I’m okay.”

Dean nods, biting his lip, avoiding Sam’s gaze as he continues getting undressed. Sam sinks to the edge of the bed and pushes his half-packed duffle to the floor. It lands with a solid thump, and both of them still, freeze, waiting for the shout, the yell, the roar from the other room. There’s no sound, just the scratching of Dad’s pen, the chink of glass on glass as he pours another measure of whiskey. 

They get into bed, and Dean lies stiffly on his back, his face stark and pale and ethereally beautiful in the faint light coming through that infuriating crack in the curtains. Sam lies there in silence for an hour, listening to his brother not sleeping. Eventually, he can’t stand it anymore, can’t bear the thoughts that must be passing through Dean’s head. 

He rolls onto his side, shifts until he’s pressed up against Dean’s side. Dean barely moves, barely acknowledges him, eyes still squeezed shut. Sam props himself up on one elbow, leans down and kisses Dean’s cheek. 

“You’re the best person I know,” he whispers. 

Dean cringes, wets his lips as if he’s about to speak, but Sam leans down, presses a gentle kiss to them. “You’re amazing, you’re a pain in the ass but you’re amazing. Don’t ever forget that.” 

Dean opens his eyes, stares at him. “Sam." 

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t think about it, just think about me. Think about how I’m the smartest kid in the tenth grade and I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You’re not a whore, Dean. Don’t you ever even think that. I wouldn’t feel this way about you if you were a whore.” He leans in, kisses Dean again. “C’mon, kiss me.” 

“Sam – we can’t – Dad." 

“That’s why I’m being quiet, duh.” 

Dean chuckles, quiet and breathy, and Sam grins, relieved. He places one hand on Dean’s cheek, turns his face. “C’mon under here, under the covers.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, but he shifts down the bed, pulling the covers over their heads as they go. They curl up together, just breathing in each other’s bodies, touching each other, not daring to do anything more – to kiss or fool around to jerk each other – or do anything that might rouse their father. But Sam can feel Dean get less tense with every touch, every hot breath. They only crawl out when they’re about to suffocate, emerging onto the pillows with tousled hair, red faces and panting mouths. 

Dean leans over and caresses the side of Sam’s face, strokes down his tangled hair, pulls him back against him until they’re back to chest, they’re _spooning_. Sam’s about to mention this but Dean’s wrapping his arms around him, pulling him in even closer, like he’s trying to mould them together, squeezing Sam tight, trying to swallow him up, and Sam so desperately doesn’t want this to stop. 

At some point he falls asleep. 

 

****************************************

 

“Sam, wake up!” Dean’s soft hiss pulls him from sleep and he blinks, slowly registering that it’s still dark and that his brother is leaning over him fully dressed in his sweats and running shoes. 

Sam blinks at him, makes a face. “Are we going for a run?” 

Dean grins, the moonlight glinting off his teeth. “Not exactly.” He tosses Sam’s sweats and hoodie onto the bed. “Hurry up, get dressed. And be quiet, don’t want to wake Dad.” 

Sam stumbles into his clothes, still half-asleep, but awake enough to heed Dean’s warning about Dad. When he’s done, Dean shoulders a backpack from by the door and beckons him to follow. 

Dad is sleeping, passed out on the couch, head pressed into the cushions and body at an extremely painful and twisted angle. There’s an empty bottle of whiskey by the foot of the couch and several empty cans of beer. Sam glances at him and bites his lip, looks up at Dean. Dean’s expression is shuttered, he blinks as he meets Sam’s eye, swallows and jerks his head towards the door. They make it outside without disturbing their father. 

Dean pushes his motorcycle to the entrance of the trailer park and out onto the deserted moonlit road. He tosses Sam a helmet and for once, doesn’t tell him about fixing the chinstrap right which has got to be a record. Sam climbs onto the back and Dean kickstarts the motor, the sudden blare of the engine startlingly loud in the silent, dark night. 

They roar down the road, away from the trailer park and towards – Sam doesn’t know where. The thought is exciting, and his heart thumps fast, wondering what Dean has in the backpack he slung into the bike’s trunk and where exactly they’re supposed to be going. Surely they can’t be leaving, just the two of them, running off and leaving Dad behind. 

His heart skips a beat and he clutches hard onto Dean, the fantasy spreading out before him. Just him and Dean, on the road together, settling down somewhere, finishing school in one place, then college perhaps, getting a degree, having a future… No hunting, and God, no Dad, no stupid PT sessions or angry spirits, or Dad’s endless fucking quest for whatever killed their Mom. 

The thoughts skitter away when Dean turns the bike into the lane that leads to Ali’s farm, and suddenly everything becomes clear. Thanks to Dean, Sam is going to get a chance to say goodbye to his one friend after all. He feels a burst of gratitude and adoration for his brother that makes the grin slice into his cheeks and his shifts even closer, burying his face into the curve of Dean’s shoulders. 

Dean pulls the bike up in the yard and glances up towards the lit-up house. Ali’s parents are farmers, the entire family are early risers, and Sam can hear the clank and bustle of Ali’s Dad and the farm hands in the barn next to the house as he slides off the motorcycle. 

Dean gets the backpack out the trunk and hands it over to Sam. “Just some stuff I thought you should return,” he says. 

Sam tugs on the zipper, inside are the bundle of comics he was debating over last night. And it’s just so typically Dean to have thought about this and made plans. Even when everything is going to shit around him, Dean puts him first. Dean never stops putting him first, always thinking about Sam, about what he needs, about what will make his little brother happy before he thinks of anything else. 

Sam blinks and bows his head, nods jerkily, stupid with emotion. “Yeah, uh, thanks, man.” 

“Get him out here, I need to tell him something,” Dean adds, and he gives this cryptic, smug sort of a smile. 

Sam makes his way around to the kitchen door. Ali’s family almost never uses their front door. He knocks a couple of times before the door opens, Ali standing on the other side in his pajamas and robe. 

“Sam?” He looks confused. “It’s five thirty, man. What are you doing here? And what happened to your face? Are you okay?” 

Sam hesitates, raises a self-conscious hand to his cheek. Shit, he’d forgotten about that, it must look pretty bad this morning. “Uh, nothing, just – sparring practice, you know.” 

“Oh,” Ali says, “I thought for a moment you were running away from home.” 

Sam bites down on the urge to give a hysterical laugh, scenes from after school specials running through his mind, and obviously through Ali’s. “No, nothing like that. Look, man, we – we’re leaving.” 

Ali’s face falls, crumples, eyes getting wide and panicked. “What? You’re leaving? Now?” 

“Yeah. My Dad came back last night. And he’s, uh, he’s got another job, up North. Only we have to leave straight away. Today in fact. I just wanted to say goodbye. Dean’s waiting outside, he says he wants to say goodbye too.” 

Ali nods, his color still high, eyes watering. Sam looks away, he feels weirdly embarrassed on behalf of his friend for this obvious show of emotion. He’s not used to it, not used to the idea that someone will miss him, that he’s made enough of an impression on anyone who isn’t his father or his brother, to ever be missed. 

“We have to go soon,” he adds, wanting to hurry this up, get it over with, not make it any more difficult than it is already. 

Ali nods, kinda dumbly, bowing his head and following outside after Sam. 

“Hey, kid,” Dean greets him. 

Even in the poor light coming from the farmhouse windows, Sam can see Ali’s blush, can see the bashful way his eyes run over Dean, like they’re trying to drink their fill, memorize and catalogue away forever. 

“Sammy tell you that we’re splitting town?” 

Ali nods, “Yeah, yeah, but I – I mean – why? Why’re you leaving so soon? I don’t get it! I thought at least you’d be here for the semester. Changing schools mid-semester it’s not good for your education, Sam.” 

Sam snorts. Like his father has ever given a shit about what is and what isn’t good for his sons’ education. 

Dean doesn’t answer that, but just slides off the motorcycle and holds out the keys. “Yeah, so anyway, we’re leaving, and I can’t take the bike with me. So… I want you to have it.” 

Ali’s mouth falls open. Hell, he’s not the only one. Sam’s standing there, gaping at his brother. 

Dean shakes the keys impatiently. “So, you want it or not?” 

“I – uh, I – yeah! Yeah, course I want it!” Ali finally manages to bust out, and he’s grinning fit to burst, looking from the bike to Dean to the keys dangling from the ends of Dean’s fingers. “Oh my God, my parents are gonna freak!” 

Dean chuckles and tosses the keys Ali’s way. Ali fumbles but manages to catch them, clutching them hard against his chest. 

“But are you sure, Dean? I mean, this is a nice motorcycle – it’s – are you sure you want to give it away?” 

Dean shrugs, all mock-cool, and Sam can see the glint of reluctance in his face, the faked-up nonchalance. “I can’t take it with me, kid.” 

Sam’s stomach churns with anger again, thinking of their father, of how this wouldn’t even occur to him. How Dad would never give a moment’s thought to Dean giving up his bike or Sam saying goodbye to one of the few good friends he’s ever made. These sorts of things never even spark on Dad’s radar. Dad is so distant, so removed from the reality of their lives, in his own little world of good and evil and revenge quests. 

Ali nods again, wide-eyed and solemn. “I’ll take good care of it,” he promises. 

“You do that,” says Dean. 

They stand in awkward silence for a moment, then Dean shrugs his shoulders, nudges Sam. “You wanna give him back those comics?” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure,” Sam stammers. He’d clean forgotten about them, with Dean’s bike bombshell and Ali’s reaction. He opens up the bag, holds out the comic books. “Here you are. You should – you’ll want these back I guess.” 

Ali slowly reaches out to take them, flicking through the pages with his head bent. Then he looks up, holds out two issues. “Take these back, you liked these. You can keep them.” His voice wavers, a watery choked-up sound, and Sam feels a lump rise up in the back of his throat despite everything, despite how many times he’s done this, how cynical and jaded he feels. 

He glances down at the comics, notes the cover art. Ali’s right. He did like these ones. Ali thrusts them out again, says, “I insist, Sam, you gotta – you gotta take them. Something to remember me by, right?” 

The question hangs in the air between them and Sam is suddenly excruciatingly aware of Dean looking at him, glancing between him and Ali and... oh, there it is, figuring it out, seeing the unsaid and unspoken scenes of adolescent fumbling and helping-each-other-out. He should’ve known, no one can read him like Dean. 

He nods, blushes awkwardly and takes the comics from Ali’s outstretched hands, letting his own hands linger, his fingers brush against Ali’s as he takes back the comics. “Thanks, man.” 

 

*****************************

 

It doesn’t occur to Sam that they have no means of transport for getting back to the trailer park until they’re heading back down Ali’s driveway, Sam carrying an empty backpack (save for two issues of X-Men) on his back. 

“Was he your first?” Dean asks abruptly, breaking the silence. 

Sam cringes, but his voice is admirably calm, his mouth dry when he finally responds. “First what?” 

“Guy,” says Dean, the _duh, Sam_ left unsaid. “Was he the first boy, guy, whatever, that you ever had feelings for?” 

“No, of course not,” Sam says. The answer is instinctive, automatic, honest. “Though I didn’t realize that until recently.”

“Oh.” They both go quiet, just the soft pad-pad-pad of their sneakers on the road. “So who was the first guy you ever," Dean trails off, shrugs, “you know?” 

Sam tilts his head back, looks at his brother for a long moment. “Who’d you think, dumbass?” 

Dean’s smile is slow at first, but then it’s dazzling, splitting his face in two, lighting up his eyes and brightening up the entire fucking sky. Sam chuckles and shakes his head, shouts, “Dumbass, Dean! So fuckin’ dumb!” 

Dean pounces on him, tickling and wrestling and pulling him off the road and into the trees. They stumble and fumble, grabbing at each other, Dean getting a good grip on Sam’s hoodie and pushing him up against the trunk of a tree, leaves and branches tangling in his hair, mud squishing under his sneakers. Dean laughs out loud, a little wild. He leans in close, eyes on fire, face pink. 

Their mouths fuse into a breathless kiss, clashing teeth and tongues getting in the way. By any normal standards, it’s a crappy kiss, but this isn’t normal standards, this is him and Dean. Him and his big brother whom he loves more than it’s possible to love anyone or anything else in the entire world. 

“Jesus Christ, Sam, drive me fuckin’ crazy,” Dean is murmuring into his skin, working his lips and teeth over Sam’s jaw and down his throat. Sam’s melting, lolling his head back and absently working his hands through Dean’s short hair, the nape of his neck, his shoulder blades and broad back, every inch of him he can reach. 

Finally Dean looks up again, blinks, his mouth red and glistening, eyes shining. “I wanna do something with you,” he says, “will you let me?” 

And what a dumb question that is? As if Sam is going to deny Dean anything ever again. He nods, “Yeah, Dean, yeah, whatever.” 

Dean chuckles and sinks to his knees in the mud. 

Sam gasps out loud when his slow beating brain finally catches up with the rest of his body, when he watches his brother lean in and nuzzle his crotch, place his hot mouth over the place where his rock-hard cock is tenting his sweats. Dean mouths over the length, and Sam’s legs are already shaking, his entire body trembling with the sensation of Dean’s mouth so tantalizingly close, so teasing as his warm hot breath filters through the thin cotton. 

“Dean, please, Dean,” he whimpers. “I can’t – Dean, I’m gonna - please…” 

Dean tilts his head back, looks up at him, eyes wide and lashes ong, smile wicked and knowing, and Jesus, he’s beautiful, how hasn’t Sam realized this before, seen how breathtakingly gorgeous his brother is? No wonder Paul Ferguson was so hung up on him, no wonder he couldn’t let go, when he had all this. 

But that doesn’t matter now, because Dean is all his, in every way that counts. Sam’s going to make sure that there are no more Paul Fergusons, no more cheerleaders or bartenders. This will be just for him. 

Dean yanks down Sam’s sweatpants and underwear, and his cock springs free, slapping against his brother’s face and smearing a trail of precome across his cheekbone. Dean takes hold of the base, and licks carefully around the slit, smearing the head around his lips and mouth like he’s putting on lipstick. 

Sam is trembling, stomach disappearing, bottoming out as he watches Dean’s pink tongue come out and lap at the head of his cock, Dean’s eyes glazed and dark as he slowly licks. Horrific, deadly swoops of his tongue that are breaking Sam apart, yanking away gravity and making him fall, tumble down, over and over, head over heels, until he can’t stop. Dean hasn’t even put him into his mouth yet, but it’s already over, he’s coming, twitching, spasming, spurting his release over Dean’s face, come trickling over Dean’s lips and chin and cheeks. 

It’s only the tree behind him that’s keeping him upright, without it, he’d be on the ground by now, a wreck. He feels wrung out, the orgasm draining every inch of energy from his body. His mind forever stuck on the picture of Dean on his knees in front of him, his face streaked with his jizz. 

Dean leans in, presses a soft kiss to the head of his cock, and carefully, gently, tucks him back into his underwear and sweats. He gets to his feet and grins. 

“Guess I don’t need to ask if you enjoyed that?” 

Sam lets out a long breath. He still isn’t coherent, still shaken. “You – uh – got some on your face.” 

“Oh, right, yeah,” Dean says. He grins again and slides his forefinger in the smears of come on his face, sucking the digit into his mouth with an obscene, slurping sound. “Mmm, still warm.” 

Sam feels his poor, spent cock give a feeble twitch and he laughs shakily. “Christ, Dean, you wanna fucking destroy me?” 

“I’d love to destroy you,” Dean murmurs, voice husky and low. He gathers up another smear of come with his spit-slicked finger, holds it out to Sam. “Here.” 

Sam hesitates, because – c’mon – that’s his own freaking jizz, but Dean cocks an eyebrow and Sam’s never backed down from a challenge from his big brother. Never. 

He sucks it in. It tastes salty, not that different from saliva, really, and he works his mouth around Dean’s finger, watching his brother’s eyes get darker, his face hotter. “Jesus,” Dean groans, “so fuckin’ hot, Sammy, such a hot little brother, aintcha?” 

Sam resists the urge to laugh out loud, instead he curls his fingers in Dean’s sweater and yanks him forward, changing their positions until Dean is the one up against the tree and he’s the one in front. 

He jerks his brother off, out there in the open, for anyone to see, barely hidden from the road, with the sun starting to come up around them, the day starting to break. 

He wipes off Dean’s jizz on his sweats and turns to see his brother regarding him thoughtfully, licking his lips. 

“What?” he says. 

Dean shakes his head, smiles a little. “S’nothing, just – I should’ve known you’d be a quick study.” 

Sam blushes, ducks his head to toe at the wet leaves. He looks up again, gives a cocky shrug. “Yeah, too damn right you should’ve known.” 

They run back to the trailer. It makes a good cover story. A run before dawn, Dad will be delighted. Two miles is nothing for the two of them and they sprint the last half mile, Sam keeping pace with his brother as his leg muscles burn and stomach starts to cramp up. Dean turns his head to the side, grins at him, crazy-eyed and exuberant, like they’re sharing something special, and they are – just the two of them for miles and miles – the road opening up in front of them, the pink and orange sky making Dean’s face glow. 

Dad’s standing by the open door of the trailer, coffee mug in hand, still wearing the clothes he slept in, rumpled and unshaven. He watches them dispassionately as they come sprinting up to the trailer, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. 

“How far did you go?”

“Four, five miles,” Dean lies, bending over to get his breath. 

Dad nods, “Good. Get showered, we’re leaving in thirty minutes.” 

 

*********************************

 

Sam stares out the back window as they pull out of the trailer park, taking the main street out of town. He’s sitting behind Dad, not his usual spot, but this way he can watch Dean in the shotgun seat, he can stare at his profile for the entire journey. Dean’s got pages of Dad’s research on his lap, leafing through his journal and consulting a road atlas. Sam watches Dean’s eyelashes flutter as he reads, his Adam’s apple bob up and down when he swallows, his cock getting slowly hard with every passing minute he shamelessly watches his brother. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean’s voice startles him out of his daydream, and he flushes, presses his palm down over his crotch. Dean’s looking over his shoulder, eying him with a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Sam makes a face at him, and Dean cocks up an eyebrow, tosses him a few sheets of photocopied paper. “Family of four, broken into, murdered in their beds. Police report says it’s an intruder, only the dumb-asses can’t figure out why all the internal organs except the hearts and livers were taken.” 

“They took all the organs, except the heart and liver?” 

“Yup,” says Dean. “Weird, huh? Why don’t you read through it, see if you catch anything Dad and I didn’t?” 

Sam takes the pages from his brother. It _is_ weird. This hunt might not be so boring after all. And it’s kinda flattering that Dean’s asking for his opinion, that Dad is obviously wanting it too, complicit in his silence. 

He sorts the pages on his lap, glances up to see Dean watching him. Slowly Dean smiles, his eyes soft and filled with so much affection that Sam wants to cry with it, rendered suddenly and stupidly emotional by the look on his brother’s face. 

“Okay, I’ll take a look,” he says finally. 

Dean nods at him. “That’s my boy.” He turns back round to face the front, and the car glides onto the slip road to join the highway.


End file.
